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THE DECENNIAL PUBLICATIONS OF 
THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO 



THE DECENNIAL PUBLICATIONS 



ISSUED IN COMMEMORATIOJI OP THE COMPLETION OP THE FIRST TEN 
YEARS OP THE UNIVERSITY'S EXISTENCE 



AUTHORIZED BY THE BOARD OP TRUSTEES ON THE RECOMMENDATION 

OP THE PRESIDENT AND SENATE 



EDITED BY A COMMITTEE APPOINTED BY THE SENATE 

EDWARD CAPPS 
STAEK WILLAED CUTTING EOLLIN D, 9ALI3BDEY 

JAHES SOWLAND AXGELL WILLIAM I. THOMAS SHAILEE MATHEWS 

CARL DARLING BUCK FEEDERIC IVES CARPENTER OSKAR BOLZA 

JULIUS STIEGLITZ JACQUES LOEB 



THESE VOLUMES ARE DEDICATED 

TO THE MEN AND WOMEN 

OP OUR TIME AND COUNTRY WHO BY WISE AND GENEROUS GIVING 

HAVE ENCOURAGED THE SEARCH AFTER TRUTH 

IN ALL DEPARTMENTS OP KNOWLEDGE 



THE POEMS OF ANNE COUNTESS OF 
WINCHILSEA 



THE POEMS/OF ANNE COUNTESS 
OFWINCHILSEA 



^\ 



> 

FROM THE OEIGINAL EDITION OP -#113 AND T'ROM UNPUBLISHED MANUSCRIPTS 
EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 

BY 

MYRA KEYNOLDS 

OF THE DEPAETilEXT OF ENGLISH 




CHICAGO 

THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESS 

1903 



THE LIBRARY OF 
CONCjRtSS. 

Two Copies Received 

JAN 29 1903 

C'ji-'vngni bntfy 

CLASS fU XXc. No 

COPY* B. 



Copyright 1902 

BY THE 0NIVEESITY OF CHICAGO 



PREFACE 

This edition of the Poems of Anne, Countess of 
Winchilsea, is based on a small volume of verse published 
by her in 1713, on two unpublished manuscripts, and on 
poems scattered through various Miscellanies. These 
sources are more fully described in the Introduction, and 
the Table of Contents indicates in which of them each poem 
is found. In preparing the present text for publication the 
volume of 1713 has been considered authoritative for the 
poems it includes, but there has been incorporated into the 
text the list of Errata published in that volume. For poems 
occurring in both manuscripts the folio has been accepted 
as the best authority, inasmuch as it is later than the 
octavo and was apparently revised by the author or under 
her supervision. 

There has been no modernization of the text, except that 
in some instances titles are not given with the original 
amplitude and variety of capitalization, and brackets are not 
used to mark triplets. Beyond these slight changes the 
various accepted texts are exactly followed. Some of the 
poems could doubtless have been made more pleasing to the 
eye and more easily intelligible by a series of editorial 
changes. It must be admitted that as the poems stand they 
show an orthography which, though often quaint and a val- 
uable indication of contemporary pronunciation, is also 
often inconsistent and the outcome of carelessness or pos- 
sibly of ignorance. The punctuation is sometimes so scanty, 
sometimes so elaborate, as to obscure the text. And there 
is an irritating excess of capitals and italics. But in spite 
of these facts, more seemed to be lost than gained by any 
attempt to make the poems conform to exact canons or to 



X Preface 

modern taste. Since so many of them are now published 
for the first time, it seemed best on the whole to follow the 
original sources exactly. In order to avoid encumbering 
the poems with references, the Notes are printed in a 
separate section at the end of the volume. 

I cannot bring forward this edition of Lady Winchilsea's 
poems without an expression of my sense of indebtedness to 
Mr. Frederic Ives Carpenter, of the Department of English 
in the University of Chicago, through whose mediation the 
manuscripts were given to me to edit, and whose aid has 
been constant throughout the perplexities incident to the 
production of this volume; to the Earl of Winchilsea, not 
only for the use of the octavo manuscript in his posses- 
sion, but for access to other manuscript material valuable in 
connection with Lady Winchilsea's life, and for introductions 
whereby it became possible to visit the places most closely 
associated with her poems; and to Mr. Edmund Gosse for 
the use of his most important folio manuscript volume of 
Lady Winchilsea's work, and for many valuable suggestions 
in connection with the Introduction and the Notes. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 

[ In the following table are marks showing in which of the original 
sources each poem is found. The volume of 1713 is indicated by *; 
the folio MS. by "f; the octavo MS. by J; Birch's General Dictionary 

by 1|]. 

Introduction ... xvii 

Mercury and the Elephant * 3 

The Introduction, "Did I My Lines" ft .... 4 

The Preface f . . 6 

TheAppologyt - - - 13 

Fragment* 13 

On Myself J 14 

Ardelia to Melancholy f J 15 

An Invocation to Sleep f J 16 

The Losse ft - 17 

The Consolation \X 18 

A Song on Greife f J - 18 

On Affliction tt 19 

A Letter to Dafnis f J - 19 

To Mr. F., now Earl of W.* f 20 

A Letter to the Same Person * 23 

Upon Ardelia's Retinrn Home f 24 

An Invitation to Dafnis f 28 

The Goute and Spider f -------- 30 

Upon the Death of Lord Maidstone f 32 

From the Muses at Parnassus fj -32 

Upon my Lord Winchilsea's Converting the Mount, etc.f - 33 

A Song upon a Punch Bowl f - 36 

The Bargain: A Song 1 1 - - 37 

To My Sister Ogle t J -------- 38 

Ardelia's Answer to Ephelia f 38 

Friendship between Ephelia and Ardelia * - - - - 46 

A Description of a Piece of Tapestry * 47 

Glass* t ----- 50 

The Bird and the Arras f - 51 

To Lady Worsley at Longleate f - 52 

xi 



xii Table of Contents 



On the Marriage of Edw. and Eliz. Herbert * - - - 55 

On the Death of Hon. James Thynne* 56 

On an Ill-drawTi Picture of Cleone * 59 

To the Kt Hon. the Countess of Hertford || - - - - 61 

Upon the Death of Sir William Twisden f - - - - 61 

Enquiry after Peace * f - - - 67 

Petition for an Absolute Retreats * f 68 

To the Lady C. Tufton t "'^ 

For the Birthday of Lady C. Tufton* f 79 

On the Lord Dundee f J 81 

The Change* tt " ^^ 

Upon the Death of King James the Second f - - - 85 

On the King of Sweden's Picture * f 91 

The Circuit of Appollo f 92 

An Epistle from Ardelia to Mrs. Randolph f - - - - 95 

A Prologue to Don Carlos f ------- 96 

A Poem Occasioned by the Sight of the 4th Epistle, etc. f - 98 

An Epilogue to the Tragedy of Jane Shore [I - - - - 100 

To Mr. Prior (Prior's Miscellaneous Works) - - - - 102 

The Answer to Pope's Impromptu || 102 

To Mr. Pope (Pope's Works, ed. 1717) ----- 103 

To a Fellow Scribbler II 105 

To Dr. Waldron t --------- 106 

To Edward Jenkinson *-------- 108 

To Mr. Jervas (Steele's Miscellany, 1714) - - - - 109 

In Praise of the Invention of Writing Letters \X - - - 110 

Clarinda's Indifference at Parting with Her Beauty f J - - 111 
Five Pieces out of the Aminta of Tasso 

Daphne's Answer to Silvia * f 112 

Amintor * f 113 

" Thirsis persuades Amintor " * f - - - - - 115 

" Though We of Small Proportion see " * f t - - - 118 

The Golden Age* tt 119 

From the French of the 188th Sonnet of Petrarc ft - - '119 

A Song of the Canibals t : ------- 120 

A Maxim for the Ladys f J - 121 

On Absence f - 121 

Written before a French Book, etc.f 121 

The Equipage * t 122 

Melinda on an Insipid Beauty f - 122 



Table of Contents 



Part of the Second Act of Athaliah * - - - - - 123 

La Passion Vaincue * - - 125 

An Epistle to Madam Deshouliers * . . - . . 126 

A Song for a Play f - - - 127 

A Song, Melinda to Alcander \l - 128 

ASong, "By Lovepersu'd"tJ ------ 128 

A Song, " Miranda hides her " f J 129 

A Song, "Whilst Thirsis"tt - 129 

A Song, " Persuade me not " * f t 130 

Jealousy, a Song * f J; - 130 

A Song, " Love thou art best " * f 131 

A Song, " Quickly, Delia "* 1 1 131 

A Song, " 'Tis strange this heart " * f 132 

A Song, " The Nymph in vain " f J 132 

A Song, " If for a woman " f J 133 

A Song, " Lett the fool still be true "ft - - - - 133 

Moral Song* ft 134 

Honour, a Song \ - - - - 134 

Timely Advice to Dorinda \ - - 135 

The Phoenix *t 135 

Hope*t - - 136 

Life's Progress * j - - 136 

A Sigh t ---------- 138 

Csesar and Brutus \ X - - - - - - - - 138 

An Epistle from Alexander to Hephaestion * f - - - 139 

A Fragment written at Tunbridge Wells * - - - - 142 

The Prodigy II --------- 1^2 

A Pastoral Dialogue * f 144 

The Cautious Lovers * f .-,-.-. 147 

AdamPos'd*t --------- 149 

Ralph's Reflections f 150 

The Unequal Fetters f - - - - 150 

Alcidor*t 151 

The Critick and the Writer of Fables * 153 

A Miller, his Son, and their Asse* f J 155 

The Wit and the Beau * - 158 

Cupid and Folly * t " " 159 

Love, Death, and Reputation* f - 160 

The King and the Shepherd * f 162 

There's no Tomorrow *f 164 



xiv Table of Contents 

Jupiter and the Farmer * t " " 165 

For the Better*! 166 

The Jester and the Little Fishes * f 168 

The Atheist and the Acorn * - 169 

The Prevalence of Custom * - 170 

The Musselman's Dream * 172 

The Shepherd Piping to the Fishes * - - - - - 173 

The Decision of Fortune * - 174 

The Brass-Pot and Stone-Jugg * 177 

The Owl describing her Young ones * 178 

The Philosopher, the Young Man and his Statue * - - 181 

The Hog, the Sheep, and the Goat * 182 

The Shepherd and the Calm * - 183 

The Lord and the Bramble * 185 

The House of Socrates * - 186 

The Yoimg Kat and his Dam, the Cock and the Cat * - - 187 

The Executor* 189 

The Miser and the Poet * - 191 

The Tradesman and the Scholar* ----- 194 

Man's Injustice towards Providence *----- 196 

The Eagle, the Sow, and the Cat * 198 

The Man bitten by Fleas * 200 

Keformation* - 202 

The Lyon and the Gnat * - - 203 

The Man and his Horse * - - 205 

The Dog and his Master f -.----- 206 

The Battle between the Rats and the Weazels * - - - 207 

Democritus and his Neighbours * 208 

Fanscomb Barn * - 210 

Psalm the 137th paraphrased to the 7th verse * f J - - 214 

A Preparation to Prayer f J - 214 

A Pastoral between Menalcas and Damon ft ... 215 

On Easter Day ft - - - "220 

Hallelujah ft - - - 222 

Some Reflections in a Dialogue between Teresa and Ardelia f J 223 

The 10th Part of the 119th Psalm paraphrased ft - - 226 

The 146th Psalm Paraphrased ft 227 

Gold is try'd in the fire 1 1 - 228 

The Poor Man's Lamb * t 229 

The Second Chapter of the Wisdom of Solomon f I " ■ 235 



Table of Contents xv 

Jealousie is the Rage of a Man f 238 

All is Vanity * f - - 238 

The Spleen * f - - 248 

On the Hurricane * 252 

Hymn* - - - 262 

TotheEcchoft - - 264 

The Bird ft - - - 265 

The Tree ft 266 

The Nightingale * t - 267 

A Nocturnal Reverie * 268 

To Death* tt - - 270 

The Triumphs of Love and Innocence f - - - - 271 

Aristomenes * f 337 

Prologue to Aristomenes f - 337 

Song for Aristomenes f 410 

Epilogue to Aristomenes f 411 



INTRODUCTION 

Lady Winohilsea was born in 1661 and died in 1720. 
Her poems were written after 1685. During the period 
from 1685 to 1720 she takes rank as a minor writer in all the 
popular literary forms except comedy. Love songs, sacred 
songs, pindarics, satires, epistles, fables, translations, trage- 
dies, verse criticism, and one prose critical essay, come 
within the compass of her works. Her poems are fre- 
quently commonplace in substance and even more frequently 
crude in form. Only now and then does she reach an excel- 
lence that would make them of importance apart from 
their place in literary history. Yet, taken as a whole, her 
work proves to be of unusual interest. This is due, in part, 
to the social environment and the literary associations of 
which the poems give so detailed and clever a picture, and 
in part to Lady Winchilsea's own personality, as revealed in 
her work. But the chief elements of interest arise from 
the fact that she was a heretic in her own day, a protestant, 
both consciously and unconsciously, against the religious, 
social, and literary canons then in vogue; and from the 
further fact that some of her heresies became the orthodox 
faith of later generations. Her education and her literary 
activities fall entirely within the compass of the classical 
period, but her poems show romantic tastes unparalleled in 
her own day, and not afterward so highly developed before 
Cowper. She was hardly strong enough to be counted one 
of the influences in bringing about changes in taste, but she 
distinctly foreshadows such changes, and it is on her deli- 
cate originality and independence of judgment that her 
claim to literary recognition must rest. 



xviii Introduction 



SKETCH OF LADY WINCHILSEA's LIFE 

Anne Kingsmill was descended from a very ancient Hamp- 
Bhire family. This family, whose original name was Caste- 
layne, resided at Basingstoke from the twelfth 
to the sixteenth century. One of its members, 
for a personal service done to King John, had the grant of 
the Royal Mill at Basingstoke, and he took thereafter the 
name of Kingsmuln. Early in the reign of Edward I. the 
mill was alienated by Hugh de Kingsmuln, but the name 
was retained. During succeeding generations the family 
held a position of importance in Hants. It was at the 
house of Richard Kyngesmylle, bailiff of Basingstoke, that 
Catherine of Aragon and her suite were entertained for a 
night on her way to be married to Prince Arthur. Richard's 
son, Sir John Kingsmill, was judge of the common pleas, 
and one of the feoffees in the will of Henry VII. His son. 
Sir John Kingsmill, was high sheriff of Hants and pur- 
chased from the crown various manors, among them that of 
Sydmonton, with which this branch of the family is after- 
ward associated. Of the seventeen children of this Sir 
John several were of high distinction. Thomas was pro- 
fessor of Hebrew at Oxford; Richard was attorney at the 
court of wards under Elizabeth; Sir George, judge of the 
common pleas, married a direct descendant of Edward I. 
by Eleanor his wife. One daughter married Sir James 
Pilkington, Bishop of Durham, and another married Richard 
Cooper, ancestor to the first Earl of Shaftesbury. The Con- 
stance Kingsmill who married the son of Sir Thomas Lucy, 
the supposed original of Shakespeare's "Justice Shallow," 
was probably a niece of this Sir John. A cousin, William 
Kingsmill, was the last prior of St. Swithun's Priory, Win- 



Introduction xix 



Chester, and the first dean of Winchester Cathedral. His 
initials, "W. K.," and the Kingsmill arms, are carved on the 
oak stalls of the choir. Anne's great grandfather, who was 
high sheriff under James I. and Elizabeth, was esteemed 
*'the wisest gentleman of his country." Her father, Sir 
William Kingsmill, married Anne Haselwood, one of the 
nine children of Sir Anthony Haselwood and Elizabeth Wil- 
mer, of Maid well, Northamptonshire. Anne Hasel wood's 
brother, Sir William Haselwood, succeeded his father in 
1660. His estate that year was rated at <£3,000 per annum. 
His daughter Elizabeth, "whose excellent character would 
fill a volume," became in 1685 the third wife of Viscount 
Hatton of Kirby. Another daughter, Penelope, was the first 
wife of Sir Henry Seymour, alias Portman, of Orchard- 
Portman, in Somersetshire. Anne Haselwood's sisters, 
Catherine and Elizabeth, married, respectively. Sir Thomas 
Cave and Sir William Langham. It will thus be seen that 
through both father and mother Anne Kingsmill was related 
to families of high repute. 

Sir William Kingsmill and his wife Anne had three 
children, William, Bridget, and Anne. Sir William died 
when Anne, who was born in April, 1661, was 
but five months old. In his will, after solemnly 
" bequeathing his soul to his Saviour Jesus Christ through 
whose merits he hopes to join the Saints and Angels, and 
his body to the dust whence it came," he shows his con- 
fidence in his "Ladie and loving wife" by making her his 
sole executrix during the minority of his son, William, then 
a child of two or three years, to whom the estates were 
bequeathed. Provision was likewise made for his daughters, 
a sum of .£2000 being set aside to be invested for Bridget 
and paid to her with all the interest accruing therefrom on 
her twenty-first birthday or on her marriage. A sum of 
.£1500 was similarly set apart as Anne's portion. The 



XX Intboduotion 



authority vested in the wife was to remain in force during 
her widowhood or her after-marriage " to any man what- 
soever if so it should come to pass according to her good 
will and pleasure." That it did so come to pass, and that 
with almost indecorous promptitude, is shown by the mar- 
riage license issued in October, 1662, to " Sir Thomas Ogle, 
Kt., of Wickin, in Barewell, Co. Suffolk, Bach--, 24, and 
Dame Anne Kingsmill of Sydmonton, Co. South*°°, widow, 
above 30." The only child of this second marriage was 
Dorothy Ogle, born in 1663. In 1664 the mother died, 
leaving four children under seven years of age. In her will 
she says: "Out of the assurance I have of the prudent love 
and care of my dear husband. Sir Thomas Ogle, I doe 
wholly give and bequeath to him all my possessions, and I 
doe hereby wholly give, assign, remit and bequeath the 
education and government of all my children unto the said 
Sir Thomas Ogle, to be brought up in the fear of God and 
good nurture according to their quality, as he in his discre- 
tion shall think fit." In what way the young widower 
fulfilled this momentous trust must, unfortunately, be left 
largely to the imagination. Beyond the fact that he became 
Major of H. M. Holland Regiment in 1665, we have no 
record of him except that he died in 1671. His daughter 
Dorothy was left as the ward of Sir Richard Campion (or 
Champion), but there is no statement as to the disposition 
made of the other children. It would perhaps be most nat- 
ural to suppose that they would go to Sir William Hasel- 
wood, their mother's brother, and their intimacy with his 
daughter Elizabeth would lend color to that supposition. 
But wherever they were, Anne and Bridget, if we may judge 
by a few letters preserved among the Hatton MSS. in 
the British Museum, received a more thorough education 
than Dorothy. Bridget's letters are smooth, formal, high- 
bred and tolerably correct, while Dorothy's orthography and 



Introduction xxi 



sentence structure follow no law more imperative than her 
immediate whim. But whether, the sisters were educated 
together or not, there was always a close bond between Anne 
and Dorothy. In a poem written to Dorothy from Kirby in 
1688 Anne dwells with eager afiPection on the " lost pleas- 
ures" of their former companionship, and demands that 
time shall pay back the days and hours of their separation. 
Their "soft endearing life" together makes her think of 
Heaven as the place when they shall learn new mysteries 
of love. " Teresa," as Dorothy is poetically called, also 
appears in the Dialogue between Teresa and Ardelia, 
as the wisest and most loving counsellor of the unhappy 
Ardelia. Dorothy was maid of honor to the Princess of 
Denmark, and died unmarried at the age of twenty- 
nine. The original draft of her will is among the Hatton 
manuscripts and is worth quoting in full: 

In the name of God Amen I Dorothy Ogle of Maidwell in ye 
County of Northton, spinster for the settling of my temporall estate 
Doe make this my last will & testament in manner following first I 
give & bequeathe to ye Right Honbie the Lord Viscount Hatton 
his Ladyes picture then I give unto ye Lady Hatton my bible and 
common prayer booke then I give to my cozen M^s Elizabeth 
Hatton my tea table dishes and gilt spoones then I give to 
my sister Bridget Kingsmill my bed then I give to my sister 
flSnch my cabinet and 5 yards of new-point, then I give unto 
my serv* Mary Rice all the residue of my books, my watch & 
all my wairing Apparell [three words undecipherable] dresing 
glasse & Boxes and all the rest & residue of my Goods, Chattells 
& personall estate what soever I give and bequeath to the aforesaid 
Lady Viscountess Hatton who I doe hereby ordaine & make the 
sole executrix of this my last will and testament In witness 
whereof I have hereunto set my hand & seale this eight day of 
Augt 1692. 



Sealed and published by ye above named 



xxii Introduction 



Dorothy Ogle to be her last will and testament in ye presence 
of us; and by \is subscribed in ye presence of ye testator. 
Jere Bellyrout 

John Hatton my mind and desire 

his mark is that my cozen M^s 

Will A Dawson Portman have my Shag- 

green tooth -pick case 
in remembrance of me. 

Of "sister bidy," as Dorothy called her, we know practically 
nothing except that she died unmarried in 1719-20. Wil- 
liam was knighted and married as soon as he attained his 
majority. His relation to his sisters does not seem to have 
been close. In a codicil to his will he left Anne and 
Bridget XlOO each, but his great ambition was to bequeath 
his estates so that they would remain under the Kingsmill 
name. He died in 1698 leaving a son of four who lived to 
the age of eighty-one unmarried. The estate, which was a 
large one, was apparently managed by Anne's husband, in 
whose note-book are many records of accounts paid for " my 
nephew Kingsmill," even the house servants receiving their 
wages through Mr. Finch. At the death of this nephew, the 
last male heir, the estates devolved upon a granddaughter 
whose husband took the name of Kingsmill. His nephew, 
the distinguished Admiral Sir Robert Kingsmill, a friend of 
Nelson, succeeded to the estates in 1805. 

In 1683 we find Anne Kingsmill as one of the six maids 
of honor of Mary of Modena. Gregario Leti, historio- 
As Maid of grapher to Charles II., gives the list of the 
Honor ladies who made up the household of the 

duchess in that year. First, there was Penelope O'Brien, 
Countess of Peterborough, who spoke French well, drew a 
salary of 1600 crowns, and had been with the duchess since 
her marriage. A more exciting personality was Susanna 
Armine, the famous Lady Belasyse, who, coming to court as 
a very young widow in 1670, had so attracted James by her 



Introduction xxiii 



wit, gayety, and remarkable powers of mind that he had 
"honorably wooed her for his wife." Of Lady Belasyse 
Mary of Modena never felt the slightest jealousy. It 
was Catharine Sedley, the maid of honor drawing the 
highest salary, intrepid, brilliant, conscious of her power 
over James, and unscrupulous in her use of it, who roused 
all the fierce antagonism in the nature of the Italian wife, 
and brought discord into the court circle. Of the other 
maids of honor Anne Killigrew was the most famous. She 
died of smallpox in her twenty-fifth year. But she had 
already shown superior ability in both poetry and painting. 
She was a pupil of Lely and her royal master and mistress 
sat to her for their portraits. If we may trust Dryden's Ode 
to Mistress Anne Killigrew, her pencil was also skilled 
in the representation of landscapes. Dryden was her 
master in poetry, and she was not a pupil of whom he 
needed to be ashamed. The thin volume of her pub- 
lished verse shows a vigor and a bitterness not to be 
looked for in a maid of honor. There is no hint of 
interest in nature, no tenderness, no lightness, almost no 
beauty or grace. The poems are marked instead by a crude 
virility. They are apparently genuine in their Carlylean 
scorn of fools, and of men who will expose themselves to 
hostile arms, or give themselves to "toylsome study" "all 
for the praise of Fools." " O famisht soul," she exclaims, 
"which such thin food can feed." She hates war, but she 
shows admiration for strength and daring, and she scorns 
weakness. There is in her poems no contemplative religious 
spirit, but there is a stern morality, and an emphatic recogni- 
tion of reason as man's supreme guide. There would seem 
to be valid reasons in the law of affinities for a warm friend- 
ship between the two Annes. They were both, Miss Strick- 
land says, "much beloved by her [Mary of Modena], were 
ladies of irreproachable virtue, members of the Church of 



xxiv Introduction 



England, and alike distinguished for moral worth and 
literary attainments." But if such a friendship did exist 
there is no hint of it in the poetry of either. Their minds 
were stretched to a contemplation of the progress of man 
through the " Inextricable Mazes of Life to his probable 
final Ruine," and they could not turn the uncertain and diffi- 
cult stream of their verse into merely domestic or friendly 
channels. Both were, however, ardently devoted to Mary 
Beatrice, and it is not strange that the young, unhappy 
duchess, "so innocently bred," so religiously inclined, found 
in them most congenial companionship. The two Annes 
vied with each other in their scorn of vice and frivolity, and 
their association with their, blameless mistress creates at 
once in the midst of the stifling court life of Charles II.'s 
day a little oasis of moral purity, and of spiritual and intel- 
lectual aspiration. To the court in general. Miss Strickland 
adds, Anne Kingsmill was well-known as the beautiful and 
witty maid of honor. 

In her youthful days Anne had looked forward to life 
and recognition at court as "an earthly paradise," but her 
Marriage to disappointment there had been intense. Almost 
Mr. Finch jjer only unquestioned source of happiness, 

'aside from her love for her royal mistress, was her acquaint- 
ance with Mr. Heneage Finch. Ardelia had early declared 
hostility to love, "however painted o'er and seeming soft" 
his addresses might be, but she was at last forced to admit 
that Mr. Finch's constant passion had found the way "to 
win a stubborn and ungrateful heart." Mr. Finch was at 
that time a commoner with but a remote chance of an earl- 
dom, but as the oldest living son of Lord Winchilsea, and 
the uncle of Charles, the heir to the title, he was treated 
with consideration in court circles. He had been bred 
to arms, and was at this time captain of the halbardiers 
of the Duke of York, and likewise gentleman of the 



Introduction xxv 



bedchamber. But though brought up to arms and forced 
by circumstances into public life, not Anne Kingsmill her- 
self had a more genuine love for studious retirement than 
possessed the mind of this captain and courtier. Doubtless 
no dignity of these days was more prized by him than the 
D. C. L. bestowed upon him by Oxford when he went thither 
with James, May 22, 1683. 

How long Anne's stubborn heart resisted Mr. Finch's 
constancy cannot be definitely told, but the marriage license 
reads as follows : 

14 May, 1684. Appeared personally Collonell Heneage Finch 
of Eastwell in ye County of Kent, Batchelor, aged ab. 27 years, 
and alleadged that he intends to marry with Madam Anne Kings- 
mill of ye Parish of St. Martins in ye fields in ye coimty of Midd'l 
a spinster aged ab. 18 years at her own disposal he not knowing 
any lawful let or impediment to hinder ye said intended marriage 
of ye truth of which he made oath and prayed a Lycence for them 
to be married in the Chappie of St. James in ye parish of St. Martin 
in ye ffields after. 

The "spinster ab. 18 years" is a delicious bit of 
coquetry, a charming subjugation of the independent maid 
of honor to the prejudices of her day. She was cer- 
tainly twenty-two. A relentless cordon of dates makes 
escape impossible. But who can censure the smooth little 
"about" which let Anne into the paradise of eighteen, 
if he but recalls the fact that in her day and circle, from 
fourteen to eighteen were the marriageable ages, that to be 
twenty-one was to rank as "ancient," while to be twenty- 
three was to be off the stage ? Anne's mother had indulged 
in a like evasive phrase, when, in her second wedding license, 
she put herself on record as " above thirty." The marriage 
probably took place on the following day, a day commemo- 
rated thirty -nine years later in Lord Winchilsea's private 
journal by the simple entry, " May 15, 1684. Most blessed 
day." And though succeeding years held much in the way 



xxvi Introduction 



\ 



of deprivation and anxiety and grief, this marriage was the 
beginning of Anne Finch's real and permanent happiness. 
Miss Strickland speaks of Mrs. Finch as " a favorite Maid 
of Honour of the Queen." This is, however, a mistake. On 
Domestic ^^® occasion of Anne's marriage she left the 

Happiness service of Mary of Modena. But Mr. Finch 

was still in the retinue of the Duke of York, and Mr. and 
Mrs. Finch therefore lived in Westminster. It was the pref- 
erence of both that they should order their lives in as simple 
and retired a fashion as court demands would permit. 
Ardelia's poetic aspirations had been no secret to Mr. Finch 
in her maid of honor days, and now in the independency 
and privacy of their own home he not only indulged her 
"*' verse, but even now and then "requir'd her rhymes." When 

he went away for the day he liked to have a poem waiting 
for him at night, and he enjoyed versified letters. Ardelia 
had come into a new freedom. She and her husband were 
most unfashionably happy together. She was not ashamed 
to declare that all her hopes and joys were bound in him. 
Occasional brief separations caused genuine grief to both of 
them. When Mrs. Finch was at Tunbridge Wells for the 
waters in the summer of 1685, her husband's loneliness 
made him urge her to shorten her stay. Only the first 
stanza of her answer is decipherable in the manuscript, but 
that in its simplicity and directness of statement shows 
something of the feeling between them: 

Daphnis your wish no more repeat 
For my return nor moinn my stay, 
Lest my wise purpose you defeat, 
And urged by love I come away. 
My own desires I can resist 
But blindly yield if you persist. 

Ardelia gaily describes the consternation of the Muses 
when they were called upon for aid in praising her husband. 



Introduction xxvii 



A Husband! echo'd all around: 
And to Parnassus sxire that sound 
Had never yet been sent. 

At least no such compromising request had been received 
at the sacred Mount "since Grizzel's Days," and it would have 
gone hard with Ardelia's poem had she not luckily found in 
her own breast so many tender memories that the aid of the 
Nine was superfluous. Domestic felicity of this idyllic sort 
was certainly not in harmony with the prevailing court 
standards. This age had defined courtship as a "witty pro- 
logue to a dull play;" marriage was but "an ecclesiastical 
mouse-trap," and all marriage was said "to end in repent- 
ance;" while the accepted similes for a wife were "a clog," 
"a tether-stake," "a yoke," "a galling load." In such a 
state of public opinion a home-life so unaffectedly good, so 
frankly happy, as that of this court-bred lady and gentleman 
was of itself a mark of distinction. 

With the accession to the throne of James in February, 
1685, Mr. Finch became more than ever occupied with pub- 
lic affairs. He was colonel in the army ; he was groom of 
the bedchamber to the king; he was three years deputy 
lieutenant for the county of Kent; and he sat one year as 
member of parliament for Hythe. During this period Mr. 
and Mrs. Finch lived in London with but occasional short 
visits in other parts of England. A brief stay in Somerset- 
shire in 1688 (probably in the summer) had, as its outcome, 
the following statement made by Lord Winchilsea August 
12, 1722: 

I do affirm that in the year 1688, Mrs. Mompesson (wife to 
Thomas Mompesson, esq. of Bruham, in Somersetshire, a worthy 
and a very good woman) told me and my wife, that Archbishop Juxon 
assured her, that to his certain knowledge the EIKQN BA2IAIKH 
was all composed and written by King Charles the First. — Although 
in the following book the King's book is thoroughly vindicated, and 



xxviii Introduction 



proved to be of his Majesty's composing, I am willing to add this 
circumstance from Mrs. Mompesson with whom and her husband 
my wife and I at this time sojourned. WixcmLSEA. 

This "statement" shows the eagerness with which Mr. 
and Mrs. Finch followed up whatever pertained to the 
fame or fortunes of the Stuarts. The revolution was there- 
fore to them a momentous and lamentable event as a result 
of which the course of their lives was suddenly and violently 
changed. So closely, indeed had they identified themselves 
with the Stuart interests that Mr. Finch found it impossible 
to take the vows of allegiance to the new monarch. 

The first two or three years after the revolution, accord- 
ingly, were trying ones. During these years we find Anne in 
various places of temporary refuge, but with no fixed home. 
In December, 1688, immediately after the flight of James, she 
went to Kirby and spent some time with her cousin Elizabeth, 
the Viscountess Hatton. In July, 1689, she was at Eastwell 
on a visit. At some date near this she was at Godmersham, 
where she wrote Aristomenes. Her retirement to Wye 
college belongs somewhere in this period. The succor 
offered by Lady Thanet to Ardelia in her hour of sorest 
need may indicate that for a time Hothfield was her refuge. 
At any rate there was quite a prolonged period during which 
Mr. and Mrs. Finch felt great anxiety concerning their 
"much-diminished bread" and their possible future place of 
abode. Just when they were finally domiciled at Eastwell 
is a little uncertain. Ardelia says in her Preface that their 
removal into the solitude and security of the country was 
due to the "generous kindness of one who possessed the most 
delightful seat in it," but she does not say whether this was 
her husband's father or nephew. Heneage, the second earl, 
died in September, 1689, so the invitation may have come 
from him, and the poem of July, 1689, may mark the begin- 
ning of the permanent Eastwell sojourn. But this is unlikely. 



Introduction 



All the further references to the earl in this preface seem 
consistent with her later very warm friendship for the young 
earl, Charles, and inconsistent with other references to her 
husband's father. Moreover, a poem to Lady Worsley, 
written after 1690, speaks as if Anne were still in some place 
of retirement with the future not yet determined upon. It was 
almost certainly Charles, the third earl, who invited them 
to make their home at Eastwell. 

For Anne and her husband the change was complete. 
There were practically no ties that bound the family to the 
new court, for although the second earl, in spite of the long 
and devoted services of his house to the Stuart cause, had 
at last declared in favor of William and Mary, and at the 
revolution had been counted of so much importance that his 
public offices had been renewed, his early death had broken 
the only possible link between his family and the reigning 
powers. Charles was too young for statecraft, while 
Heneage Finch, Anne's husband, as a non-juror, could 
have no part in public affairs. This entire severance from 
court activities could not, however, have been a matter of un- 
mixed grief to Ardelia and her husband. To be together on 
this beautiful estate would, on the contrary, have been cause 
for unmixed joy had it not been for the fate of their royal 
master and mistress. Their loyalty to the Stuarts was no 
ephemeral passion, and nearly all the poems of this period 
are dominated by a melancholy born of the disasters of that 
unhappy house, Ardelia writes concerning the composition 
of Aristomenes : 

I must acknowledge, yt the giving some interruptions to those 
melancholy thoughts, which possesst me, not only for my own, but 
much more for the misfortunes of those to whom I owe all imagin- 
able duty, and gratitude, was so great a benefit, that I have reason 
to be satisfied with the undertaking, be the performance never so 
inconsiderable. And, indeed, an absolute solitude (which often 
was my lott) under such dejection of mind, could not have been 



XXX Introduction 



supported, had I indulged myself (as was too natural to me) only 
in the contemplation of present and real afflictions, which I hope 
will plead my excuse, for turning them for relief, upon such as 
were imaginary, and relating to persons no more in being. 

These words fairly describe the state of mind in which 
many of the early poems were composed. The Petition for 
an Absolute Retreat, A Fragment, and Lines to Lady 
Worsley recount Ardelia's own unhappiness. The Change, 
which for its gentleness and dignity, for its pathetic sweet- 
ness, is one of her most charming poems, is a little allegory 
of the selfishness and insincerity of courtiers. The obscured 
sun no longer followed by the flowers it had brought into 
being, the dried-up river deserted by the fish it had nour- 
ished, the ruined mansion forsaken by the guests it had 
cherished, are evidently but successive pictures of the dis- 
crowned king. The Losse commemorates the breaking of 
some close personal tie. Could the Urania of the poem be 
possibly Mary of Modena herself ? 

Urania is no more, to me she is no more. 

All these combined can ne'er that loss deplore. 

But whoever the heroine, the genuineness of the grief 
cannot be questioned, a genuineness not lessened by the 
Shelley-like lament that grief itself is mortal. The verses 
On the Death of King James bring to an end the series of 
poems especially marked by the bitterness of the revolution. 
It is a long, heavy poem, in parts incomplete and crude, but 
it is of distinct value as showing James II, and Mary of 
Modena from the point of view of one of their own house- 
hold. 

This last poem was not written till 1701, and in spite of 
the indignant sorrow and rebuke, the passionate loyalty, that 
flamed up anew in its many stanzas, the twelve years had 
already brought their gift of healing, and Ardelia had found 
at beautiful Eastwell a more serene and deeply satisfying 



Introduction 



life than could have opened before her had the highest court 
honors been hers. 

It is difficult to think of the present splendid mansion at 
Eastwell Park as connected in any intimate way with Arde- 
Eastwell ^^^- ^^^ eighteenth century house was built by 

The Mansion the Italian architect, Bonomi, under the direc- 
tion of George Finch Hatton, the eighth Earl of Winchilsea. 
And that house has been remodeled and enlarged on so 
magnificent a scale by the present owner, Lord Gerard, as 
hardly to suggest the house of a century ago. Yet the house 
to which Mr. and Mrs. Finch went was nevertheless of excep- 
tional interest. It dated, in its seventeenth century form, 
from 1589, in which year Sir Moyle Finch obtained permis- 
sion from Queen Elizabeth to inclose one thousand acres 
and to embattle his house. The original building was of the 
sixteenth century, having been built by Sir Thomas Moyle 
in about 1544, and having come into the Finch family 
through the marriage of Thomas Finch, Esq., and Catherine 
Moyle. The wife of Sir Moyle Finch, their son, was the rich 
heiress of Sir Thomas Heneage. She was a woman, glad, it 
is true, to be assured of an appropriate local habitation, but 
more ambitious of a name. Nine years after the death of 
her husband her energetic use of the resources at her com- 
mand was crowned by the title of Viscountess Maidstone, 
and, five years later, in 1628, by that of Countess of Win- 
chilsea, both titles with reversion to heirs male. So that 
the house to which Anne came in 1690 was of interest to her 
not only as a fine English mansion a century old, with por- 
tions of it boasting an additional half century as well, but it 
must have had a stronger personal attraction as the home of 
her husband's family since the days of Catherine Moyle and 
Elizabeth Heneage, the heiresses to whom they owed rank 
and fortune. 

Of Ardelia's associations with the estate itself we may 



xxxii Introduction 



speak more confidently. Yet even here reservations must 
be made. We must free ourselves, for instance, from the 
glamor of certain historical associations that date back only 
to the days when H. K. H. the Duke of Edinburgh, made 
Eastwell his home, when members of the royal family 
planted trees that still bear their names, when Edward YII., 
then Prince of Wales, drank tea on the balcony of the beauti- 
ful winter-garden. We must banish, too, from our mental 
picture of Ardelia's home most of the luxuries, perhaps most 
of the conveniences of the modern estate. The electric light 
plant and the gas plant must give way to candles. For the 
present elaborate system of water-works we must substitute 
Mr. Finch's " darling spring " whence water was brought to 
the house in a cart " driven by one of the underkeepers in a 
green coat with a hazelbough for a whip." For the modern 
splendor of equipment and service we must figure to our- 
selves very simple domestic arrangements. The completion 
of the house, the building in of wide glass windows, the 
plotting of gardens, the fair ordering of the trees, terraces, 
and lawns adjacent to the house were all improvements not 
accomplished till ten or twelve years after Ardelia's arrival 
at Eastwell. 

But in spite of all the enlargements and modifications 
and improvements made from 1700 to 1900, there are yet 

large portions of the estate that must be today 
The Park o i •' 

as they were when Ardelia first went to East- 
well. The following notes, taken, in substance, from the 
Eastwell Blue Book of the present day, give the very details 
urged in enthusiastic praise by earlier topographical writers : 

Near the church of Boughton Aluph is the Pilgrim's Road, 
marked by yew trees supposed to have been planted by pilgrims 
on their way to Canterbury to showother pilgrims the way. Near 
Timber Gate Lodge is a grand avenue of beeches with large 
stretches of fern. In one place are twelve yew trees near together 
— wierd in shape, colossal in proportion, hoary in antiquity. If 



Introduction 



they could speak they would probably tell us of forest chases in the 
time of Alfred the Great, if not of Egbert, the first king of Eng- 
land, who ascended the throne in 827 We pass through 

hills, slopes, undulations, and levels, which, with their ancient 
timber and high fern, form the very ideal of an ancestral park of 
the ancient noblesse. Here and there through the Park are stumps 
of trees that were flomishing before Duke William of Normandy 

became William I. of England The ride through the woods 

on a sultry day is most delightful ; the complete shelter and 
obscured sky, the brown carpet of dried beech-leaves and 
beech-husks, the startling of the deer, the voices of nature, the 
absence of any sight or sound to indicate that one is in a country of 
human beings combining to add a charm of repose and of poetic 
seclusion. The chiu-ch of St. Cosmos and the embattled tower and 
beacon turret of the church are very ancient. In this churchyard 
is a yew, old in the time of William the Conqueror. This chiirch 
stands in a lovely spot surrounded by greenery where no sound 

reaches it but the voices of birds and occasional animals At 

Challocks Church bottom formerly stood the straight oak which, 
because of its shape and colossal proportions, was worth more than 
£100 for the timber there was in it. A former Lord Winchilsea 

refused that sum for it The Star Walk is still traceable but 

much overgrown Mt. Pleasant is a circular eminence sur- 
rounded by ancient yew trees standing at intervals as solitary sen- 
tinels. From this point the view is remarkable. At our back is the 
wooded park with its undulations, its mansion, gardens and lake, 
with the tower of Eastwell church peeping up through the trees. 
On our left the horizon line is formed by Wye church and Wye 
Downs. Spread out before us are villages, parks, county seats, hop 
gardens, fruit gardens, orchards, cornfields, woods, plantations and 
meadows. In the distance we descry the coast town of Hy the, and 
on a clear day we may see the English channel with its passing 
shipping. 

The majesty and dream-like loveliness of this park could 
not have been less in the seventeenth century. Lady Win- 
chilsea says of it: 

And now whenever I contemplate the several beautys of this 
Park, allow'd to be (if not of the Universal yett) of oui British 
World infinitely the finest, 



xxxiv Introduction 



A pleasing wonder through my fancy roves, 
Smooth as her lawns, and lofty as her Groves. 
Boundless my Genius seems, when my free sight, 
Finds only distant skys to stop her flight. 
Like mighty Denhams, then, methinks my hand. 
Might bid the Landskip, in strong numbers stand. 
Fix all its charms, with a Poetick skill, 
And raise its Fame above his Cooper's Hill. 

This, I confess, is what in itts self itt deserves, but the imhappy 
difference is, that he by being a real Poet, cou'd make that place 
(as he sais) a Parnassus to him ; whilst I that behold a real Par- 
nassus here, in that lovely Hill, which in this Park bears that name, 
find in myself so little of the Poet, that I am still restrained from 
attempting a description of itt in verse, tho' the agreeableness of 
the subject has often prompted me most strongly to itt. 

The central figure in the family circle when Mr. and 
Mrs. Finch went to Eastwell was, of course, Charles, the 
The Family jo^iig earl, then eighteen or nineteen years of 
at Eastwell age. His sister Mariamne was three years 
older, while his mother, Elizabeth Wyndham, a widow from 
his birth, was still a young woman. Charles was the grand- 
son of the second earl by his second wife, Mary Seymour, 
of whose eleven children five, at least, were still living. Of 
these, Frances was the wife of Viscount Thynne of Long- 
leat. Leopold was warden of All-Soul's College, Oxford. 
The sons possibly still at Eastwell were Lashley and Henry, 
young men between twenty-two and eighteen years of age. 
Two daughters, Catherine and Elizabeth, between ten and 
fifteen, were children of the third wife. Elizabeth Ay res, 
the fourth wife, was still living, and though technically the 
grandmother of the earl, was a young woman of twenty- 
eight, with a son John, of seven, who became the fifth earl, 
and a little daughter, Anne, of two. It is possible that not 
all these persons lived at Eastwell. But it was at any rate 
a large, a young, and a curiously complex family circle into 



Introduction xxxv 



which Heneage and Anne Finch came after the wreck of 
their fortunes in 1688. 

That Anne was speedily at home with her husband's kin 
is apparent from various bits of playful verse commemorating 
domestic happenings, the best of these being the charmingly 
light and deft Lines on a Punch Bowl, addressed to her 
brother Lashley. But her meed of serious verse was natu- 
rally reserved for Charles. He was the earl; he was her 
generous and hospitable host; he was young, gay, hand- 
some; she approved of his management of Eastwell; he 
approved of her poetry. The ties were certainly strong. 
Fortunately Charles was not only knowing in all the rules of 
poetry, and at his pleasure capable of putting them in prac- 
tice, but he was also indulgent to the gentle craft of poesy 
when practiced by others. It was, indeed, his lordship's 
commendation of some lines of hers that led Ardelia to her 
final joyous renunciation of the vows so often and so 
straitly made to forego the unfeminine seductions of the 
pen. In the Prologue to Aristomenes we have a very 
pleasant picture of the shy Ardelia and the poetically 
inclined young earl by the good winter's fire in the drawing- 
room at Eastwell, while she, with outward dash and fun, but 
with hardly concealed inward trepidation, presents to this 
much-dreaded critic who had the rules of Horace at his 
tongue's end her "wholly tragicall" play. 

The social joys of Eastwell were not, however, limited to 
the family. Ardelia, who says of herself, 

•^^^ I who to my heart just bounds had sett, 

Winchilsea's And in my friendship scorn'd to be coquette 

Friendships Qj. seem indulgent to each new Adresse, 

really did, in spite of this reserve, walk in the footsteps of 
the Matchless Orinda in her capacity for devoted attach- 
ments, and were it not for the disguise of fanciful names, 
we should be introduced through her poems to a wide circle. 



xxxvi Introduction 



But though certain Oranias and Uranias remain unidentified, 
in many cases the disguise is penetrable, and sometimes the 
real names are used. 

One group of poems shows the close relationship always 
maintained between Ardelia and the family of Lord Thanet,, 
of Hothfield. Catherine Cavendish was four years younger 
than herself, but she was married to Lord Thanet in 1684, 
only a few months after the marriage of Anne Kingsmill 
and Mr. Finch. Inasmuch as all the poems addressed to 
Arminda refer to her as "my Lady Thanet," they must all date 
after 1684. The Inquiry After Peace, a poem inserted in a 
letter to Lady Thanet, and the Petition for an Absolute 
Retreat show that in hours of foreboding or of actual dis- 
aster, Ardelia's instinctive refuge was "the great Arminda." 

What Nature, or refining Art, 
All that Forttme cou'd impart. 
Heaven did to Arminda send ; 
Then gave her for Ardelia's Friend. 

The good Lord Thanet evidently agreed with Ardelia's 
estimate of his young wife. He outlived her for many years, 
but had carved on his tombstone as the most notable fact in 
his career that he had been married to Catherine Cavendish, 
and that he " believed no woman on earth would have made 
him so happy as she did ; " so Mr, and Mrs. Finch were not 
alone in their unfashionable domestic felicity. The daugh- 
ter, Catherine Tufton, chose Ardelia as the recipient of "the 
first letter that ever she writt," and she is thereupon cele- 
brated as the high-born Serena, fair and young. Of more 
interest is the probable relation between Ardelia and the 
second daughter, Anne Tufton, who was married in 1708-9, 
when she was but fifteen or sixteen, to the Earl of Salisbury. 
Is she then the "Salisbury " praised in the Noctiwnal Rev- 
erie? Leigh Hunt, in Men, Women, and Books, says posi- 
tively, but without giving his authority, that the " Salisbury" 



Introduction xxxvii 



of the poem is Frances Bennett, the wife of the fourth Earl 
of Salisbury; while Jane Williams in Literary Women of 
England, says, with equal positiveness and equal absence 
of a citation of authority, that this " Salisbury" is the Lady 
Anne Tufton. Wordsworth suggested that the lines in ques- 
tion marred the poem and should be omitted. Such a 
course would certainly save controversy. With no actual 
proof at hand, only the probabilities of the case can be 
stated, and these are all in favor of Anne Tufton. The com- 
paratively late date of the poem is indicated by the fact that 
it appears in neither manuscript. The latest possible date 
for it would be 1713, the date of its publication, and the 
earliest possible date, if Anne Tufton is the " Salisbury," 
would be 1709. In these years the young countess would 
be between sixteen and twenty, with Lady Winchilsea twenty- 
two years older, a disparity of age that might tell against a 
close friendship between the two countesses, but would cer- 
tainly be no bar to an adroit compliment from the older lady 
to the daughter of her dearest friend. And there is no 
record of any friendship with Frances Bennett. 

Another family closely connected with the Finches was 
that of the Thynnes of Longleat. Ardelia visited often at 
The Thynnes ^^^^^ noble estate, and the mansion, and espe- 
of Longleat cially the gardens, the most splendid and costly 
example of the formal garden at that time in England, never 
failed to arouse her enthusiasm. The Thynne family, also, 
both collectively and individually, received their meed of 
eulogistic verse. The poems run along from 1690 to 1714, 
and show a steadfast and intimate friendship. The death of 
young James Thynne is made the occasion for an enumeration 
of the renowned ancestors of the family. Of these distin- 
guished persons none attracted Ardelia more than "that 
matchless Female," the Lady Packington, who was supposed 
by many to be the author of The Whole Duty of Man, and who 



xxxviii Introduction 



of each Sex the two best Gifts enjoy'd, 
The Skill to write, the Modesty to hide. 

Grace Stroud, the wife of Henry Thynne, is the Cleone of 
the poems. Her husband is Theanor, and is always spoken 
of with a certain awe because of his knowledge of the fine 
arts. As a judge of tapestry, painting, and poetry his opin- 
ions seemed beyond contradiction. Ardelia must have had 
more than one thrill of gratified pride as she found her own 
poems praised from time to time by so competent a critic. 
When, seven years after his death, she sent her volume of 
poems to his daughter, the young Countess of Hertford, she 
rests her modest plea on the father's favor rather than on 
her own merits. It is interesting to see Lady Hertford, the 
friend in later years of Thomson, Savage, and Shenstone, 
begin thus early her role as patroness of letters. 

Frances, the daughter of Viscount Weymouth, married Sir 
Robert Worsley in 1690. Lady Worsley is the " Utresia " who 
had " so obligingly desired Ardelia to correspond with her by 
Letter." Ardelia's response to the request of this petted 
child of fortune, beautiful in her fresh and smiling bloom, 
universally beloved, encompassed with present joys and rich 
in hope, is couched in complimentary terms that would cer- 
tainly stimulate Lady Worsley' s side of the correspondence. 
But though extravagant, the praise Ardelia gives is evidently 
from her heart. She speaks only what she feels. A little 
hint of the permanence of this friendship is found in a letter 
from Lady Marrow to Lady Kay, quoted on page xliv. In 
Ardelia'B Ansiver to Ejjhclia the reference to "your large 
Pallace" as their "place of meeting, love and liberty," 
would seem definitely to aSix the "Ephelia" to some one of 
the Longleat ladies. The date of the poem, which is about 
1690-1, would still further confine the allusion to the Vis- 
countess Weymouth or to the Lady Worsley, and Anne's in- 
timacy with the latter would make her the more probable one. 



Introduction xxxix 



In that case the "Ephelia" of the little poem on Friendship 
is doubtless also Lady Worsley. That she should be " Utre- 
sia," in one poem and "Ephelia" in another is no more sur- 
prising than that Mr. Finch should figure as both " Daph- 
nis " and " Flavio." Lady Worsley's daughter is celebrated 
in some gay little verses in honor of the marriage of Edward 
and Elizabeth Herbert, which must have taken place about 
1709, when the bride and groom were respectively fourteen 
and seventeen. Cupid, having lost Elizabeth Herbert, is 
comforted by the thought that he may still find a suitable 
mate in the young Worsley, who was then fifteen, and who 
was married the next year to Lord Cartaret. 

One of the prominent figures at Longleat at this time was 
Elizabeth Singer, afterward Mrs. Howe, whose pen-name 
was Philomela. In 1694, when a young lady of twenty, 
she was on intimate terms with the family, and Mr. Henry 
Thynne taught her Latin and Italian. A collection of her 
poems was published in 1696 and was much admired. The 
friendship between Elizabeth Singer and Lady Hertford was 
warm and was life-long. One would expect from the circum- 
stances that Ardelia and Philomela would have found much 
in common, but their extant letters and poems do not reveal 
any especial friendship. Ardelia refers once in The Miser 
and the Poet to the poems of Philomela, and a letter from 
Mrs. Rowe to Lady Hertford, in 1720, the year of Lady 
Winchilsea's death, written to condole with Lady Hertford 

for the death of "My Lady ," may refer to Lady 

Winchilsea. The letter closes: " 'Tis impertinent to reason, 
and against the dictates of nature, or else you might satisfy 
yourself with the extraordinary character she left behind her 
and her rest from the misfortunes of life." But this letter is 
indecisive, and there are no further indications of any ac- 
quaintance between the two poetesses. 

There was also resident at Longleat the saintly Bishop 



xl Introduction 



Ken, the author of several widely-known hymns, as " Awake 
My Soul" and "Glory to Thee, My God, This Night." He 
was one of the nonjuring bishops, and at this time living 
in retirement under the protection of Viscount Thynne. 
Ardelia was much impressed by the beauty and consistency 
of Bishop Ken's life. She even goes so far as to say, in 
her poem on the hurricane of 1703, that the bishop's man- 
sion at Wells would never have been so scourged by the wild 
winds had Bishop Ken not been supplanted by Bishop Kidder. 
On the whole, we may safely say that Longleat was the source 
to Ardelia of much personal happiness, and of much in the 
way of poetical guidance and inspiration. 

Ardelia's long, dignified, and rather heavy poem on the 
death of Sir William Twysden, shows how intimately she 

knew him and how genuinely she admired him. 

The Twysdens were also her husband's relatives, 
for Sir William was the great-grandson of the famous 
Elizabeth Heneage, the first Countess of Winchilsea. When 
Anne visited at the Twysden estate it must have been 
with an envious pleasure that she gazed upon certain heir- 
looms there. Sir William owned the picture of the first 
Lady Winchilsea and " the blew case of gold in which it is," 
and also a dozen of silver plates that had been given by the 
said Lady Winchilsea as a legacy to Sir William's grand- 
mother, " having the said Ladies armes on the one side and 
coronet of an Earle over them, and on the backside a Coro- 
net and over against it A. T.," the initials of the grandmother, 
Anne Twysden. There was also ' 'a gold booke " and " a gold 
bole and cover to it belonging," which had apparently come 
from the same source. Sir William was learned in history, 
genealogies and heraldry. He was, according to Ardelia, a 
clear-sighted and moderate patriot; an author himself of no 
mean rank; and a gentleman of fine taste, high breeding, 
and affable manners. 



Introduction xli 



Ardelia's personal poems do not bear the stamp of con- 
ventional eulogy. In an interchange of formal literary 
compliments she could be as verbose and vapid as the law 
governing such effusions seemed to demand. But poems 
written to people for whom she had a personal friendship 
are quite different in tone. They strike a modern reader 
as having a good deal of what Dr. Johnson would call 
"encomiastic fervor," but they likewise have the stamp of 
genuineness. These eulogies are Ardelia's deliberate esti- 
mates of the friends she praises. The total effect of her 
rather prolific and almost wearisomely minute personal poems 
is to introduce us to a company of sweet-spirited, quick- 
witted, beautiful, and virtuous women ; to a company of men 
patriotic, well educated, of high breeding, refined manners, 
and cultivated tastes. It is worth a moment's pause to note 
the marked contrast between the social life thus indicated 
and that presented by contemporary writers, such as Pope, 
Swift, or Prior, Certainly no Jeremy Collier would have 
been needed had all the aristocracy been such as Ardelia 
portrays. Either she had a gift for eliciting and seeing 
only the best in her friends, or she decisively rejected all 
who were not of the best ; or, the more probable hypothesis, 
her pictures of Lord Thanet and Viscount Thynne and Sir 
William Twysden, of Arminda and Cleone, and Serena, and 
Ephelia, and Utresia, and the rest of the goodly squires 
and dames, as truthfully represent the times as Pope's 
Chloes and Atossas and Sapphos, his Bufos and Bubos 
and Lord Fannys. Ardelia merely brings into the light a 
typical group of the best portion of the English aristocracy 
of her day. 

Life at Eastwell was further varied by visits to different 
watering-places, and by winters in London. Ardelia's town- 
house was in Cleveland Row, a short street adjacent to St. 
James's palace. Charles Jervas, the artist who painted a 



xlii Introduction 



portrait of Pope, and whose house was often Pope's head- 
quarters in London, lived but a short distance away, in 
Cleveland Court. Lady Winchilsea knew Jervas, and admired 
his work, especially the portrait of her friend, the lovely 
Mrs. Chetwynd. It was at the house of Jervas that Pope 
was staying when Lady Winchilsea invited him to the famous 
dinner which was followed by the dramatic recital destined 
to play so interesting a part in the relations between Pope 
and Ardelia. 

Visits to the more noted watering-places were not infre- 
quent. We have seen the depression of spirit engendered by 
the public and private disasters incident on the revolution. 
But Ardelia's peace of mind was assailed by another and 
even more insidious foe. That "anxious Rebell," her heart, 
was reinforced by another enemy within the gates. She was, 
in fact, an unfortunate victim of the Spleen, a fashionable 
eighteenth century distemper, the protean woes of which 
had early cradled her into song. Many were her ineffectual 
attempts to find relief through visits to various health resorts. 
Of these Tunbridge Wells with its "quick spring of spirit- 
eous water " was the most fashionable, and its fame as a cure 
for the Spleen was long-lived. We find Lady Winchilsea 
here once in 1685 and again in 1706. 

A less noted resort, but one much frequented by the 
gentry and lauded by medical men was, at Astrop, a small vil- 
lage near London. A " Learned Physician " in 1668 gave 
four pages to an encomium of the well dedicated to St. Rum- 
bald, a child which spake as soon as he was born. This 
well, says the Learned Physician, "openeth, astringeth, and 
consolidateth egregiously." It takes away " ecrementitious 
Humidities of the Brain .... opens the obstructions of the 
Liver and Spleen, cures the Flatus Hypochondriacus, and the 
Palpitation and Trembling of the Heart proceeding from 
thence It fastens the Teeth though ready to drop 



Introduction xliii 



out It comforts the Nerves, helps the Gout 

strengthens broken Bones takes away the swelling 

and. pains of the Spleen .... and cures Aches and Cramps 
in any part of the body whatsoever." But even this concen- 
trated apothecary's shop proved unavailing in Lady Winchil- 
sea's case. Neither Tunbridge nor Astrop gave her the 
branch of healing spleenwort with which Pope's Umbriel 
safely penetrated to the cave of the gloomy goddess. Her 
poem on The Spleen is of the first-hand, naturalistic order. 
It has none of the glittering generalities born of vague knowl- 
edge. So full and accurate is its account of symptoms that 
it achieved prompt professional recognition. Dr. Stukeley 
published it in his treatise on the spleen, for the purpose, as 
he said, of helping out his own description. Lady Win- 
chilsea admits that the spleen is often counterfeited, but 
maintains that the real disease is of the gravest sort. The 
sufferer is afflicted by insomnia or by boding dreams and 
terrifying visions. There are successive moods of stupid 
discontent, wild anger, panic fear. Spleen blights the ablest 
minds with self-doubt. It enters the realm of religion and 
perplexes men with endless, foolish scruples. It fills the 
heart with fancied griefs. It creates an abnormal love of 
solitude. Various early poems, as On Grief, To Sleep, To 
Melancholy, express in other terms the extreme depression 
of spirits against which the sufferer from the spleen had to 
contend. Ardelia addresses Melancholy as her " old invet'- 
rate foe," who in spite of mirth, music, poetry and friendship, 
in spite even of " the Indian leaf and parch'd eastern Berry" 
still holds his throne in her darkened heart. In despairing 
surrender she exclaims: 



To thee, great Monarch, I submitt, 

Thy Sables and thy Cypress bring, 

I own thy Pow'r, I own thee King, 

Thy title in my heart is writt. 

And till that breaks I ne'er shall freedom gett. 



xliv Introduction 



It is probable, however, that as the years went by her 
health improved. Her spirits certainly did. When she was 
at Tunbridge in 1706 she was sufficiently at leisure from her- 
self to examine into the love-making then so popular a pas- 
time at the Wells and to write it up with fine scorn. And 
she threw a playful jibe at the doctors who thought to cure the 
spleen with a formula. Further proof of this increased 
gayety of spirit is in a letter, written August 1708, from Lady 
Morrow to her daughter. Lady Kay: 

Friday last I went to town From the Vice Chamberlain 

I went to see Mrs. Finch, she ill of the spleen. Lady Worsley has 
painted a pretty fire-screen and presented her with; and notwith- 
standing her ill-natm*ed distemper, she was very diverting — Mrs. 
Finch I mean. 

It is not certain that Ardelia ever discovered Green's 
famous remedy for the spleen. 

Throw but a stone, the Giant dies, 

but it is more than probable that the simple life at East- 
well, the long, entrancing walks in the park, and the peace 
growing out of congenial companionships and congenial 
occupations were better cures than Tunbridge or Astrop. 

No record of Ardelia's life at Eastwell would be satisfac- 
tory without as full an account as possible of the "one from 
whom she was inseparable." In her description of her ideal 
retreat from the world the one person needed to make its 
charms complete was 

A Partner, suited to my Mind, 

Solitary, pleas'd and kind ; 

Who, partially, may something see 

Preferred to all the World, in me ; 

Slighting, by my humble Side, 

Fame and Splendour, Wealth and Pride. 

Inasmuch as this was a description after the event, the 
lines may be counted a fairly accurate, though they are not 



Intkoduction xlv 



an adequate, picture of Heneage Finch in this Eastwell life. 
In a poetical appeal to Dafnis written about 1700, in which 
Ardelia urges him to leave his usual occupations for a walk 
in the fields, we have incidentally a summary of the interests 
of this retired courtier and soldier. He follows with steady 
attention all the details of the campaigns in behalf of his 
old Master James, and the work of Vauban, Lewis's chief 
engineer, is minutely studied. But there are other and more 
peaceful interests. Mr. Finch is attracted by geographical re- 
search and is absorbed in the work of Nicolas and Guillaume 
Sanson, the French geographers. He busies himself with 
mathematical drawing. He particularly enjoys doing illu- 
minations on vellum. Against the tyranny of these pursuits 
Ardelia makes playful protest. The partner entirely suited 
to her mind should discover that reading even the softest 
poetry about nature could not vie with seeing nature itself, 
that the best "carmine and imported blew" cannot compete 
with the bright colors of the corn-flower and the poppy, that 
faery circles on the green are of more worth than the truest 
line compasses can draw, and that all Sanson's facts about 
the universe are as naught before the joy of one perfect 
English day spent among the fields and groves. So eager a 
delight in outdoor life must have been infectious, and we can 
hardly imagine Dafnis insensible to Ardelia's pleadings. 
His interest in Eastwell, however, took another and more 
learned direction, that of antiquarian research. He was an 
enthusiastic believer, for instance, in the legend that Richard 
Plantagenet had served as a brick-layer at Eastwell when 
the house of Sir Moyle Finch was built; that Sir Moyle, on 
discovering the royal workman, had granted him his wish 
for a palace of one room built in a field ; and that an ancient 
unmarked tomb in Eastwell Church covered the remains of 
the hapless Richard. It was through Mr. Finch that the 
legend first saw light. Dr. Brett related the story in a let- 



xlvi Introduction 



ter published in Peck's Desiderata Curiosa (1732), saying 
that he had his information from Heneage, Earl of Win- 
chilsea, whom he visited at Eastwell Park in 1720. An anony- 
mous tract, entitled The Parallel, and published in London, 
1744, tells the story of Kichard, and closes with these words: 

This house of Eastwell Place came afterwards into possession 
of the eldest Branch of the noble Family of Finch, and it is to the 
laudable curiosity of the late Heneage, Earl of Winchilsea, a Noble- 
man whose virtues threw a Shade on the age in which he lived, 
that we owe the several particulars I have given the Reader. They 
were frequently the topic of that good man's Conversation, who 
woiild sometimes show that Spot in his Park, upon which the 
House of old Richard stood, and which had been piilled down by 
the Earl's Father. " But I," said the most worthy Lord, " had it 
reached my Time, would sooner have pulled down that," pointing 
to his own House. As a testimony to the Truth of this remarkable 
History he was wont to produce the following Entry in the Register 
of the Parish Chinch at Eastwell: "Anno Domini 1555 Richard 
Plantagenet was bvnied the 22nd December, Anno ut supra." 

Mr. Finch's antiquarian tastes and learning received 
early and frequent recognition. Harris, in his History of 
Kent, records the accidental discovery, in 1703, of a small 
urn of reddish earth and of the skeleton of a child, in a 
cutting along the wagon- way near Wye. In 1718 he 
writes of it : 

The Report of this Discovery brought the Right Honourable 
Colonel Heneage Finch (now Earl of Winchilsea) whose inquisitive 
genius inclines him to a curious search after Antiquities, and of 
which he hath a nice Relish and is an excellent Judge, to come out 
and examine this place more narrowly which was done the same 
year. 

The results of this investigation were all left in the hands 
of Lord Winchilsea. Dr. Stukeley says that during the nine 
years he lived in London (1717-1726) he had "the greatest 
intimacy with Thomas, L<^ Pembroke, Heneage Earl of 
Winchelsea, Sir Isaac Newton — in short with the whole sett 



Introduction xlvii 



of learned men and Vertuoso's w^at that time abounded," 
and his memoirs contain numerous references to Lord Win- 
chilsea's antiquarian zeal and learning. 

Lord Winchilsea's closest associates, besides his chaplain, 
Mr, Creyk, were Lord Hertford and Dr. Stukeley. They 
styled themselves Druids and had fanciful names, Dr. Stukeley 
being Chyndonax ; Lord Hertford, Segonax ; and Lord 
Winchilsea, Cyngetorix. Their special search was for Duro- 
lenum, and Lord Winchilsea enthusiastically declared that 
if he should be so happy as to succeed in the search he 
would have " O brave Cyngetorix " engraved on his tomb- 
stone. 

Another form of antiquarian research carried on in the 
main by Charles, and one perhaps more in accord with 
Ardelia's taste, was the hunt for old books and manuscripts. 
In an account of Thomas Britton, the famous musical small- 
coal man, we have a very pleasant picture in which the Earl 
of Winchilsea is one of the figures : 

About the beginning of this century, a passion for collecting 
old books and manuscripts reigned among the nobility. The chief 
of those who sought after them were the Duke of Devonshire, 
Edward, Earl of Oxford, and the Earls of Pembroke, Simderland 
and Winchilsea. These persons in the winter season, on Satur- 
days, the Parliament not sitting on that day, were used to resort to 
the city, and, dividing themselves, took several routes, some to 
Little Britain, some to Moorfields, and others to different parts of 
the town, inhabited by book-sellers; there they would enquire into 
the several shops as they passed along for old books and man- 
uscripts ; and sometime before noon would assemble at the shop of 
Christopher Bateman, a book-seller, at the corner of Ave-Maria- 
lane in Paternoster-row; and here they were frequently met by 
Bagford, and other persons engaged in the same pursuits, and a 
conversation always commenced on the subject of their inquiries. 

And presently along would come Thomas Britton in his 
blue linen frock and with his sack of small coal on his back, 
and join them. 



xlviii Introduction 



Most of the antiquarian research of which we find definite 
record occurred in the years 1720-1726, or after Lady Win- 
chilsea's death, but inasmuch as Lord Winchilsea was elected 
president of the Society of Antiquaries as early as 1717, and 
was recognized as early as 1703 as the natural judge and 
custodian of antiquarian treasures found in that region, we 
cannot escape the conclusion that Roman roads, Roman 
ruins, mortuary urns, ancient brasses and coins, and worm- 
eaten manuscripts loomed large among the interests of this 
Eastwell life. 

From Lord Winchilsea's antiquarian labors and letters 
we get more than a hint of his character. He shows him- 
self capable of strong enthusiasms, and he is prompt, ener- 
getic, and optimistic in carrying them out. He is, withal, 
gay in spirit, and with a sense of humor that turns even his 
failures into fun. He lives an easy, genial, unambitious 
life. His interests are varied and dilletante. If Durolcnum 
remains elusive, why there are still manuscripts to be illumi- 
nated. If the "blew and carmine" fail, the rabbit burrows 
still hold out possibilities in the way of urns and rings and 
bones. He has no occupation so strenuous or important as 
to interrupt the peaceful tenor of his days. 

But antiquarian research was far from being his only 
interest. From a leather-bound, silver-clasped duodecimo 
copy of Rider's Almanac, on the blank pages of which 
Lord Winchilsea recorded important domestic incidents, we 
gain many suggestive hints concerning life at Eastwell. 
The Almanac is for 1723, but the events recorded are not 
merely of that year. He apparently made the little book 
a repository for any family dates or happenings that 
seemed interesting to him. The dates from 1713 to 
1710 have chiefly to do with "my several Try alls in Chan- 
cery," and there are dates of important deeds of sale, 
showing that after the death of Charles there were many 



Introduction xlix 



imperative demands on the time and thought of the new 
earl in the way of business management. The dates of 
births, marriages, and deaths in the families of various 
friends are also carefully noted. He sets down the day he 
was weighed and the "16 stone and 12 lbs." registered by 
the scales. We find that a "horse-hair peruque" costs X2, 
10s. Among scattered financial transactions is a list of fees 
headed, "Given away at Marlborough House, Aug. 18, 1723." 
These fees range from a guinea each to seven of the more 
important servants down to 2s 6d for the " Kitchin-Boy ;" and 
aggregate <£14 6s, 6d. An interesting list of " Books which I 
have Subscribed for" certainly shows, in spite of the incor- 
rect citation of titles, some learning and a catholic taste, 
for it includes such volumes as ^'■Carmina Qiiadragesimila/^ 
'■'•Recuille des Piers antique graves;'''' '■'■Monfaucons Siqjplim, 
5 vol.;'''' ^'- King of Sweden'' s Travels/^ ^^ Cardinal Wolsey^s 
Life;''"' '■'•Querels Testameyit;''^ ^^Sr. Ra. Winnwood's Let- 
ters;" ''Rev. Lewis'' Isle of Thanet;'' ''Mr. BrevaVs Book;'' 
and "Dr. BarwicJc's Life."" If any room in the present 
house can be definitely associated with Ardelia it must be 
the stately library, where are doubtless still many of the 
books selected by Anne Finch and her husband, and perhaps 
also some of those illuminated by him. 

Along with notes on books are jottings of another sort, as a 
record of the "large ripe scarlet strawberrys from Brook Gar- 
den," presented to Mr. Finch, October 8 ; or the account of 
"a Buck which, having been almost killed by another Buck 
in the Park, had been gott by the Keeper into the Green 
Garden" where "from being a very lean Buck — -after his 
recovery he grew so fatt that he cutt as deep as the length 
of this mark on the Haunches, viz. two inches and a half." 

Through the pleasant intimacy of this little book we gain 
confirmations of the attractive impression already made by 
Mr. Finch through his wife's poems and his own letters, an 



1 Introduction 



impression further confirmed by G. Vertue's print of his 
lordship, which shows a portly man with straight nose, dark 
eyes, a white, curled wig, and a very kindly expression. 

Lord Winchilsea died in 1726. A Latin eulogy of him 
is quoted in The Gentleman's Magazine for October, 1783. 
It is entitled "/n Obihun Proenobilis Viri, Heneagii Finch, 
Comitis de Winchilsea, Epicediiim et Apotheosi, Prid. Cat. 
Oct. 1726.'''' But this tribute is less satisfying than the fol- 
lowing brief note from Lord Hertford to Dr. Stukeley: 

The concern you express for the loss of Lord Winchelsea can- 
not but be pleasing to me; for I should be very sorry that you, for 
whom he had a just value, should not have grieved with the rest of 
his friends; and I think I may call the whole world so, for sure he 
had no enemy nor was he one to anybody. 

The final impression made by these scattered facts con- 
cerning Lord Winchilsea is that he was as well fitted by 
temperament and tastes to find permanent joy in the retire- 
ment at Eastwell as was Ardelia herself. If she loved nature 
and poetry with emphasis on the nature, and he loved nature 
and antiquities with emphasis on the antiquities, that was 
only enough of a difference to give needed variety. They 
were both simple and unambitious in their desires. They 
were loyal to their friends. Their minds were alert and 
their interests always along scholarly or poetical lines. They 
very nearly made real Wordsworth's maxim of plain living 
and high thinking. 

Lady Winchilsea died six years before her 
Lady Win- ^ i i . i i i • 

chiisea's husband. Her death is thus recorded in 

Deatb ^^Mawson's Obits.'' 

On Friday, 5^^ of August, 1720, dyed at her own house in 
Cleveland Row the Right Hon^io Anue Countess of Winchilsea, and 
was on Tuesday following privately Interred according to her desire 
at Eastwell in Kent, the ancient seat of that noble family. She 
was Dau'r of S^ W''^ Kingsmill of Sidmouton, a very ancient family 
in Hantshire. 



Introduction 



The facts in this notice and in parts its phraseology- 
are identical with a brief statement in Lord Winchilsea's 
journal, from which I have already freely quoted. The 
authorship of the little sketch is left doubtful, but the fact 
that Lord Winchilsea preserved it shows that it was sat- 
isfactory to him. There is, perhaps, no more fitting way to 
close this outline of Ardelia's life than by quoting the exact 
words recorded in her husband's private journal: 

My Dear Wife's just character finely drawn by aud pub- 
lished in the publick prints after her Decease. 

On Friday the fifth instant died at her own house in Cleaveland 
Row the Rt Honourable Anne Countess of Winchilsea and was on 
Tuesday following (privately according to her own desire) carried 
down to Eastwell in Kent, the ancient seat of that noble Family, 
and Interred there. She was a Daughter of S"" W^^ Kingsmill of 
Sidmonton, a very ancient Family in Hampshire, and had been Maid 
of Honour to her late Majesty Queen Mary when Dutchess of York, 
till married to the Honbie Coll. Heneage Finch who on the death of 
his Nephew the late Earl of Winchelsea succeeded to that Hon- 
our: To draw her Ldysp's just character requires a masterly pen 
like her own. We shall only presume to say she was the most 
faithfull servant to her Royall Mistresse, the best wife to her noble 
Lord, and in every other relation public and private so illustrious 
an example of all moral and divine virtues: in one word a Person of 
such extraordinary endowments both of Body and Mind that the 
Court of England never bred a more accomplished Lady nor the 
Chmch of England a better Christian. 



II 

THE PROGRESS OF LADY WINCHILSEA's FAME 

The relation between Ardelia and contemporary poets is 
a matter of considerable interest. She early received an 

enthusiastic welcome into the guild from sub- 
Early Tributes i- . s-. t i £ 

ordinate craftsmen, in a package or manu- 
script poems in the possession of the Duke of Marlborough 



lii Introduction 



at Blenheim is An- Ode on Love, inscribed to the Horioura- 
ble Mrs. Finch. It is four and one-half pages long, and is 
apparently one of the earliest tributes to her work. Another 
example of " private homage from an unknown muse " is 
from the very modest pen of honest Will Shippen, a par- 
liamentary Jacobite and a poet on his own account. He 
bases his admiration of her "wondrous sweetness" and " manly 
strength " on the poems that appeared in Gildon's Miscellany 
in 1701, and on All is Vanity, which, though not published 
till 1713, was written before the death of Dry den in 1700. 
Shippen may have known all these poems in manuscript, but 
it seems probable that his eulogy was called forth by Mrs. 
Finch's first appearance in print in 1701. 

A congratulatory poem from Mrs. Randolph and an even 
more congratulatory response from Mrs. Finch would, if 
interpreted as seriously as they were written, enthrone both 
ladies high in poetic realms. The description of Mrs. Finch 
as the Elisha on whom fell the mantle of Cowley, the recog- 
nition of her as the rightful heir of Orinda's fame, carried 
praise to dizzy heights. But the conventional extravagance 
of eulogy is so vague that we cannot determine just which 
poem Mrs. Finch had sent for Mrs. Randolph's inspection. 
The only one referred to is The Pastoral published by Gil- 
don. Of Mrs. Randolph's other work I find no trace except 
a commonplace poem. On the much lamented death of the 
Incomparable Lady, the Honorable Lady Oxenden. A 
Pindarique Ode. This Ode is preserved in a curious old scrap- 
book in the British Museum, a volume made up of clippings 
of verse by women, from newspapers, annuals, books, and 
with a few manuscript items. None of these early poems 
calls Mrs. Finch "Ardelia." This pen-name was not made 
public, it seems, till her fame was somewhat established. 

In Prior's Miscellaneous Works published in 1740, is a 
little poem called Lines to Prior by a Lady Unknown. 



Introduction liii 



This poem, no trace of which is to be found elsewhere, is 
ascribed by Mr, Adrian Drift, Prior's executor, to Anne, Coun- 
tess of Winchilsea. There is no evidence that 
Lady Winchilsea knew Prior, nor can the slight 
personal allusions in this poem be taken as indicating any first- 
hand knowledge of the poet. Such knowledge might easily 
have come, however, with sufficient minuteness and direct- 
ness from Longleat through Elizabeth Singer, to whom 
Prior, in the intervals of his attendance on the king as gen- 
tleman of the bed-chamber, was paying vain addresses. The 
poem must be an early one, its spirit and phraseology having 
little likeness to any of Lady Winchilsea's work except her 
first drama. Certainly the hysterical emotion with which 
the lady speaks of herself as " A Virgin-heart fraught with 
secret wishes," "a love-sick maid whose passion is raised to 
excess by the swelling numbers of the poet," is quite out of 
keeping with the usual dignified and delicate reticence of 
Lady Winchilsea's personal allusions. The lines are an 
acknowledgment of poetical indebtedness to Prior, a point 
to be more fully discussed in connection with Ardelia's 
songs, 

Nicholas Rowe's estimate of Lady Winchilsea's poems is 
recorded in An Epistle to Flavia. On the sight of two 
Pindaric Odes on the Spleen and Vanity. 
Written by a Lady, her Friend. This dates 
before any published work of hers, for it is evident that the 
poems had been transmitted to Rowe through some trusted 
intermediary with many cautions as to secrecy. Kowe's 
praise is unqualified. Ardelia is a "divine nymph" whose 
inspiration comes from heaven. She alone has not bowed 
the knee to false gods of wit, she is the only rival of Pin- 
dar short of the celestial choirs. Rowe approved of Arde- 
lia's caution in keeping her poems from the public eye, but 
lines such as his would not have made her averse to the 



liv Introduction 



proposals of Gildon in 1701. Later Rowe sent down to 
Eastwell copies of his Imitations of Horace's Odes. In 
1713 Ardelia wrote a prologue to be spoken by Mrs. Oldfield, 
at the presentation of Rowe's tragedy, Jane Shore. These 
facts would seem to indicate a literary friendship of consid- 
erable strength. A personal acquaintance is highly probable, 
but of that I find no direct proof. 

Swift's Letters and Journal to Stella show that by 1710 
he was on familiar terms with Charles, the third Earl of 
Winchilsea, who, in spite of his Jacobite ances- 
wi ^^^^^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^ submitted to the revolution 
government as to deserve and receive valuable public appoint- 
ments from William, and later from Anne, Swift says of 
him, "Being very poor he complied too much with the gov- 
ernment he hated ; " but that the two men were on especially 
good terms is apparent from the words in which Swift 
informs Stella of the death of the handsome young earl: 
" Poor Lord Winchilsea is dead, to my great grief. He was 
an worthy, honest gentleman, and particular friend of mine; 
and what is yet worse, my old acquaintance, Mrs. Finch, is 
now Countess of Winchilsea, the title being fallen to her 
husband but without much estate." Swift's intimacy with 
Lord Winchilsea and also with Lady Worsley, one of Anne 
Finch's closest friends, would certainly imply that Swift had 
frequent opportunities of meeting the lady of whom he 
speaks thus cavalierly. To offset this note to Stella we may 
turn to Swift's poem, Apollo Outwitted, to Mrs. Finch under 
the name of Ardelia. This was published in Miscellanies 
in Prose and Verse in 1711, but would seem to have been 
written some years earlier. It very possibly belongs to the 
September-October, 1708, spent by Swift in Kent. Ardelia 
is represented as having adroitly won from Apollo the gift of 
song but without having granted his suit. In revenge the 
god exclaims that, though he cannot revoke his gift, he will 



Introduction Iv 



afflict the prudish lady with pride and modesty so stubborn 
that her verse shall remain unknown: 

And last my vengeance to complete, 
Mayst thou descend to take renown, 

Prevailed on by the thing you hate, 
A Whig! and one that wears a gown! 

The verses are, on the whole, playful and gallant and would 
indicate nothing but friendly relations. But the last lines 
show that, whatever concessions her nephew Charles felt to 
be the logical outcome of his necessities, Ardelia's allegiance 
to the old order was unfaltering and outspoken. It would 
not, indeed, be difficult to imagine after-dinner conversations 
in which the statements of that very positive defender of the 
Whigs, Dr. Swift, might have elicited not only those 
" flashes of Ardelia's eyes " before which Apollo was 
abashed, but even more emphatic retorts not contributory to 
final amity. The evidence is too scanty for an exact state- 
ment of the attitude of Swift toward Mrs. Finch, but it 
would seem to be more friendly than that of Pope. 

The actual relationship between Lady Winchilsea and 
two others of her fellow poets. Pope and Gay, is not easily 
Alexander Pope determined. In years she was much their 
and John Gay senior. When she first braved the publicity of 
Gildon's Miscellany in 1701 Pope was but a lad of thirteen, 
studying versification under his father's strict tutelage in 
Binfield, and Gay, a youth of sixteen, in the free grammar 
school of Barnstaple, was devoting himself to dramatic per- 
formances under his "rhyming pedagogue," R. Luck, A. M. 
But the next decade brought great changes. The young 
men had come to London and were on friendly terms in the 
same literary coterie. Gay was not yet widely known, but 
Pope's Pastorals, his Essay on Criticism, and his Raj^e of 
the Lock, had made him the most talked-of poet in England. 
Lady Winchilsea had also advanced. Not only had her 



Ivi Introduction 



work been accepted by Gildon, and received flattering 
tributes from Howe and Swift, not to mention minor bards, 
but her Spleen had attained to the dignity of a second 
edition, and she had the inner, supporting consciousness of a 
stately volume of verse practically ready for publication. 
Yet in comparison with Pope Ardelia was hardly even the 
" minor excelsitude " Mr. Gosse has so aptly called her. 
When her volume of verse appeared in 1713 it was Pope's 
criticism that she coveted and which she proceeded in a 
feminine fashion to obtain. Perhaps her husband's recent 
accession to the title gave her courage. At any rate she 
issued a bold invitation, which Pope accepted but which be 
commemorated in the following words in a letter to Caryll, 
dated December 15, 1713 : 

The fact is, I was invited to dinner to my Lady Winchilsea, and 
after dinner to hear a play read, at both which I sat in great dis- 
order with sickness at my head and stomach. 

The situation has picturesque possibilities. Did Ardelia do 
the reading ? Did Pope adopt the suffering posture of the 
portrait by Kneller ? Evidently the trials inseparable from 
literary dictatorship began early with Pope, and Lady 
Winchilsea's dinner was one of the experiences that later 
occasioned the humorous complaints to Dr. Arbuthnot : 

A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped, 

If foes they write, if friends they read me dead. 

Siezed and tied down to judge, how wretched I! 

Who can't be silent, and who will not lie ; 

I sit with sad civility, I read 

With honest anguish and an aching head. 

Courthope conjectures that the play read to Pope was 
Aristomencs. But this play was already in print and Pope 
could have read it at his leisure. It is more probable that 
it was Love and Innocence, the play still in manuscript. In 



Introduction Ivii 



either case the strain on Pope's stock of "sad civility" must 
have been considerable, and it may be set down to his credit 
that author and critic parted on good terms. They were 
certainly friends in 1714 when the first separate edition of 
the Rape of the Lock came out. To Ardelia's playful pro- 
test against the satiric lines on women, Pope responded in a 
highly eulogistic Impromptu in which, even if perchance the 
"sickness at his head and stomach" had proved too much 
for his gallantry at the memorable dinner, he made amends 
by acknowledging Ardelia the bright particular star among 
female wits. Her gay answer is written in an intimate, 
friendly, bantering tone such as she could not assume. It 
marks the moments when she was least self-conscious and 
restrained, when she was most at ease, most certain of pleas- 
ing. Another evidence of literary amity is that when the 
quarto edition of Pope's Works came out in 1717, one of the 
seven commendatory poems he saw fit to print was by Lady 
Winchilsea. This poem, doubtless with Pope's consent, 
appeared also in the publications of 1727 and 1732. Either 
Pope liked the lady, or he liked the lady's verses, or he liked 
to have a countess speak well of him, even if her admiration 
found but bald and prosaic expression. 

Thei*e is, however, another side to the picture. There 
are certain serious lapses from this attitude of friendship. 
In the second Epistle, written about twelve years after Lady 
Winchilsea's death, the lines, 

Arcadia's Countess here in ermined pride, 
Is there, Pastora by a fountain side, 

are said by Croker to refer to Lady Winchilsea. " She is," 
he adds, "here and elsewhere sneered at." The "else- 
where " in Croker's note, if it is not a mere guess, probably 
refers to the farce Three Hours after Marriage which is 
commented on in the next section. In this farce the satiric 
flings at Lady Winchilsea doubtless express more exactly the 



Iviii Introduction 



attitude of Pope and Gay toward her as a female wit, and 
toward female wits in general, than does the gallant eulogy 
of Pope's Impromptu. And that their attitude is but the 
attitude of their age, may be indicated by a brief statement 
of the position accorded the learned lady by contemporary 
comedy. 

Mrs. Behn's Sir Patient Fancy (1678) gives us in Lady 
Knowell one of the earliest examples in the restoration 
The Learned period of the English female pedant. Lady 
Lady in Comedy Knowell is especially distinguished by her use 
of big words in the style of Mrs. Malaprop. " I have con- 
sented to marry him " she says, " in spite of your Exproba- 
tions;" "I saw your reclinations from my Addresses;" 
" There is much Volubility and Vicissitude in Mundane 
Affairs." Her devotion to the classics is of the most effusive 
sort. To Leander she exclaims, 

Oh the delight of Books ! When I was their age I always 
employed my looser hours in reading— if serious, 'twas Tacitus, 
Seneca, Plutarch's Morals, or some such useful Author ; if in an 
Humour gay, I was for Poetry, Virgil, Homer, or Tasso. 

Yet this classical lady is represented as rivaling her 
frivolous daughter in the pursuit of amorous adventure. Mrs. 
Behn doubtless took the suggestion for this character from 
Moli6re's Femmes Savantes (1672), the acknowledged source 
of Wright's Female Virtuosos (1693). Wright's Lady 
Meanwell, Mrs. Lovewit, and Catchat, were meant to be 
English versions of the Philaminte, Armande and B6lise of 
the French comedy. But though Moli6re's general plot 
structure is followed and the characters certainly find their 
originals in his play, yet the kind of learning the ladies have 
is based on Shad well's Virtuoso (1676), rather than on the 
Femmes Savantes. They are scientific in their tastes. Lady 
Meanwell is also public-spirited, and she invents a "Mathe- 
matical Engin" to keep the streets of London dry and clean. 



Introduction lix 



"'Tis but setting up Timber Posts round about the City, 
and then fixing a pair of Bellows on every one of 'em to 
blow the clouds away." Mrs, Love wit has made an exact 
collection of all the plays that ever came out, and she has 
devised a limbeck where all the quintessence of wit that is 
in them is to be extracted and sold by drops to the poets of 
this age. Catchat is teaching a flea to sing by note and 
expects soon to have the little creature ready for the opera. 
Sir Maurice Meanwell embodies the protest against these 
learned ladies. 

Lady M. How now, Sir Maurice, is the merry God Dancing a 
Jigg within the inclosure of your Brains ? You forget yourself 
strangely, methiuks. 

Sir Maiir. 'Tis to you, Sister, I speak, what a Devil have you 
to do with Jingling and Poetry. {To Catchat.) 

Catch. Lord, Sister, what a strange compound yoiir Husband 
is of Vulgar and clownish atoms ? 

Sir Maur. A pretty thing indeed, to see those long spectacles 
of yours, set on the top of my house, for you to peep, and tell how 
many Hackney Coaches are going in the Moon. 

Lovew. Oh the illiterate Brute ! thus to affront a telescope. 
[Aside.] 

Sir Maur. I am no Scholar, not I, and I thank my Stars for it, 
but with yom* leave, so much common sense has taught me, that all 
the Study and Philosophy of a wife, should be to please her Hus- 
band, instruct her Children, have a Vigilant Eye over Domestick 
Affairs, keep a good order in her Family, and stand as a Living 
Pattern of Virtue, and Discretion to all about her. 

Lady M. Sir Maurice like another Solon, is now setting up for 
a lawgiver, Poor Soul ! 

Sir Maur. The Women of Old did not read so much, but lived 
better; Housewifery was all the Knowledge they aspired to ; now- 
adays Wives must Write forsooth, and pretend to Wit, with a Pox. 

Catch. 'Tis the partial, and foolish Opinion of Men, Brother, 
and not oiu: Fault has made it ridiculous nowadays; for a Woman 
to pretend to Wit, she was born to it, and can shew it well enough, 
when occasion serves. 

Vanbrugh's jEsop (1697) gives us Hortentia, "the wise 



Ix Introduction 



lady, the great scholar that nobody can understand," Her 
lover tells her ^sop's fable of the nightingale that tried to 
imitate a linnet, and adds : 

From that day forth she chang'd her note, 
She spoil'd her voice, she strain'd her throat ; 
She did as learned women do, 

Till everything 

That heard her sing 
Would rim away from her — as I from you. 

Wright's play was revived at Lincoln's Inn Fields in 
January, 1721, in order to anticipate Gibber's Refusal, like- 
wise an adaptation of the Femmes Savantes, which appeared 
at Drury Lane the next month. In the twenty-eight years 
between Wright's first production of The Female Virtuosos 
and Gibber's The Refusal, the learned woman is a not infre- 
quent comic character, and she is often given pungency by 
traits drawn from some well-known original. Mrs. Manley in 
The Lost Lover (1696) even ventured to name her "affected 
poetess," Orinda, the pseudonym under which Mrs. Gatherine 
Phillips had subdued the world. Female Wits: or the 
Triumvirate of Poets at Rehearsal, by W. M. (1697) made 
prompt use of three ladies who had recently made their lite- 
rary debut. Galista was Gatherine Trotter, then but eighteen 
years of age, and the author of but a single poor tragedy, 
Agnes de Castro. She was treated more lightly than the 
others, and was merely " bantered for pretending to under- 
stand Greek and to set herself up for a critic." The hero- 
ine, Marsilia, was Mrs. Manley, whose tragedy, The Royal 
Mischief, had appeared in 1696 and is the drama sup- 
posed to be in rehearsal by the players. Mrs. Pix, whose 
portly figure, good nature, and love for wine were well 
known, appeared as Mrs. Wellfed, "a fat female author, a 
good, sociable, well-natured companion that will not suffer 
martyrdom rather than take off three bumpers in a hand." 



Introduction Ixi 



The Comparison between theTwoStages (1702), attributed 
to Gildon, is also severe on the female wits of his day, with 
especial reference to Mrs. Manley. A dialogue between Ram- 
bler, Sullen, and the Critick illustrates the attitude toward 
women playwrights. Rambler brings forward Mrs. Mauley's 
The Lost Lover for comment, but the Critick is roused to 
fury by the mere mention of a play by a lady and exclaims: 

I hate these Petticoat-Authors ; 'tis false Grammar, there's no 
Feminine for the Latin word, 'tis entirely of the Masculine Gender, 
and the language won't bear such a thing as a she-author. 

Sullen insists that " 'twas a Lady carry'd the Prize of 
Poetry in France t'other day," and that "there have been 
some of that sex in England who have done admirably," and 
Rambler proposes a toast to " the Fair Author of the Fatal 
Friendship," but the Critick is not so easily to be appeased. 

Mrs. Centlivre's Basset-Table (1705) gives disagreeable 
prominence to a learned young lady, but Mrs. Centlivre, 
herself a writer of plays, adroitly places her heroine in the 
scientific rather than the literary realm. Her Valeria is a 
younger sister of Wright's Lady Meanwell in that she pro- 
fesses to find a microscope more interesting than a man. The 
physical peculiarities of flesh-flies and tapeworms rouse her 
to an ecstacy of admiration. In her search for knowledge 
she calmly dissects her pretty dove, and is with difficulty 
restrained from dissecting her lover's Italian greyhound. 
She prefers the "immense pleasures of dear, dear Philoso- 
phy" to converse with beings so unenlightened and irrational 
as would-be suitors, and it is not strange that they declare 
her " fitter for Moorfields than Matrimony." The lady who 
represents " common sense" in the play urges that " Philosophy 
suits the Female Sex as Jack-boots would do," but Valeria 
defends even the Jack-boots. The character of Valeria 
doubtless gained in raciness from the various references to 
the famous Mary Astell, whose Serious Proposal to the 



Ixii Introduction 



Ladies appeared, in two parts in 1694 and 1697. In 1705 
the third edition of her Reflections on Marriage was accom- 
panied by a new Preface, a plea for women not equaled 
before Mary Wolstoncraft. Mary Astell's proposed " college 
for the education and improvement of the female sex" was 
for years a theme provocative of coarse raillery, and Mrs. 
Centlivre was not above throwing a stone or two at so well 
marked a target. Her Common Sense Lady says sarcastic- 
ally to Valeria: 

Well, Cousin, might I advise, you should bestow your fortune 
on founding a College for the study of Philosophy where none but 
women should be admitted; and to immortalize your name they 
should be called Valerians, ha, ha, ha ! 

Charles Johnson's "female philosopher," Florida {Gen- 
erous Husband, 1711), Cibber's " female philosophic saint," 
Sophronia, and her young step-mother, the learned " trans- 
lator of the passion of Byblis" [The Refusal, 1721), have less 
direct personal reference; though the education of Cibber's 
ladies, who ostentatiously read Latin and quote Latin and 
who can talk Latin by the hour with Lady Wrangle's uncle, 
the bishop, their instructor, doubtless refers to Mary Astell, 
who, as was well known, had been early inducted into the 
classics by her uncle, a clergyman. 

In this comic procession of the seventeenth and eighteenth 
century Minervas Lady Winchilsea was given a bitter pre- 
Three Hours eminence by satirists so clever and unscrupu- 
after Marriage j^^g ^g Pope and Gay. On January 16, 1717, 
there appeared on the stage of Drury Lane a farce entitled 
Three Hours after Marriage. It ran feebly seven nights 
and was then hissed off the stage. It was published under 
Gay's name, but was known to be the joint work of Pope, 
Arbuthnot, and Gay. The character of Phoebe Clinket is 
attributed to Gay by Mr. Austin Dobson in his article on 
Gay in the Dictionary of National Biography, and is there 



Inteoduction Ixiii 



said to be a satire on Lady Winchilsea. Evidently the 
authority for these statements is Baker's BiograpMca Dra- 
matica. In Baker's analysis of the farce occurs this passage: 

Phoebe Clinket was said to be intended for the Countess of 
Winchilsea, who was so much affected with the itch of versifying 
that she had implements of writing in every room in the house that 
she frequented. She was also reported to have given offence to one 
of the triumvirate by saying that Gay's Trivia showed that he was 
more proper to walk before a chair than to ride in one. 

Baker's account did not appear till 1764, forty-seven 
years after the play, and was based on rather vague rumor. 
More exact information as to the apportionment of work 
among the triumvirate is to be found in a farce called The 
Confederates, in which the trio were savagely attacked by 
John Durant Breval under the pseudonym of "Joseph Gay." 
The Confederates appeared almost immediately after the 
Three Hours after Marriage and doubtless embodies the 
general opinion at that time as to the authorship of different 
parts of the play. The first scene of The Confederates is in 
a room in the Rose -Tavern near the Play-House. Arbuth- 
not listens at the door while Pope soliloquizes as follows: 

Thus in the Zenith of my Vogue I Keign 
And bless th' Abundance of my fertile Vein; 
My pointed Satire aim alike at All, 
(Foe to Mankind) and scatter roimd my Gall: 
With poyson'd Quill, I keep the world in Awe. 
And from My Self my own Theesites draw. 
This very Night, with Modern Strokes of Wit, 
I charm the Boxes, and divert the Pit ; 
Safe from the Cudgel, stand secure of Praise ; 
Mine is the Credit, be the Danger Gay's. 
Arb. (coming forward). 

Hold, Brother ! thou f orget'st the Scenes I made ; 
This Boast of thine, is but a Gasconade. 

P. Know, Caledonian, Thine's a simple Part, 

Scarce anything but some Quack-Terms of Art, 



Ixiv Introduction 



Hard Words, and Quibbles; but 'tis I that sting, 
And on the Stage th' Egyptian Lovers bring ; 
Miss Phoebe, Plotwell, Townley, all are Mine, 
And Sir Tremendous — Fossile's only Thine. 

The character of Fossile in the play was meant as a satire 
on Dr. Wood ward, a well-known geologist, and it may easily be 
that Arbuthnot was the only one of the triumvirate suffi- 
ciently versed in scientific terms to reel off the jargon put 
into the mouth of this virtuoso. Sir Tremendous, a satirical 
portrait of John Dennis, must almost certainly be the work 
of Pope, who could hardly be expected to keep his hands off 
if his arch-enemy were thus to be exposed to a drubbing. 
Many strokes in the character of Plotwell are said to be 
levelled at Cibber, hence this character, too, may naturally 
be ascribed to Pope. Gay may have had some private grudge 
against Lady Winchilsea, as Baker says, and may have had 
a hand in the portrayal of Phoebe Clinket, but that this 
character was virtually Pope's is explicitly stated, not only 
by The Confederates, but also by the Complete Key by "E. 
Parker, Philomath," published a few months after the play. 
It is in this Key, too, that we find Lady Winchilsea given 
as the original of Phoebe. The Key reads as follows: 

Phcebe Clinket. This character is a very silly Imitation of the 
Bays in the Rehearsal, but is design'd to Redicule the Countess of 
W — n — ea, who, Pope says, is so much given to writing of Verses 
that she keeps a Standish in every Room of the House, that she 
may immediately clap down her Thoughts, whether upon Pindaric, 
Heroic, Pastoral or Dramatical Subjects. This punning Char- 
acter was drawn by Pope. 

So far as the plot is concerned Phoebe Clinket is an 
unimportant character in the farce. After the first act she 
comes in but twice, once to claim as her own the much- 
maligned invention whereby the two lovers, disguised as a 
mummy and a crocodile, gain access to their mistress; and 
again when a letter, which announces that her play, the off- 



Introduction Ixv 



spring of her brain, has been refused by the theater, is by 
a vulgar series of double meanings interpreted into an 
acknowledgment by her of a crime that should be laid at the 
door of Mrs. Townley, the immoral heroine of the farce. 
The character of Phcebe Clinket is drawn merely for the 
purpose of caricaturing a learned lady. A brief analysis of 
the first act will serve to show the points of general satire as 
well as the points to be interpreted as especially applying to 
Lady Winchilsea. 

When Mrs. Clinket appears on the stage she has on an 
ink-stained dress, and pens are stuck in her hair. She is 
accompanied by her maid carrying strapped to her back a 
desk on which her mistress may write. The following con- 
versation shows the authoress in the throes of creation: 

Maid. I had as good carry a raree-show about the street. Oh! 
how my back aches ! 

Clink. What are the labours of the back to those of the brain? 
Thou scandal to the muses, I have now lost a thought worth a 
folio, by thy impertinence. 

Maid. Have I not got a crick in my back already, that will 
make me good for nothing, with lifting your great books ? 

Clink. Folio's call them and not great books, thou monster of 
impropriety. But have patience, and I will remember the three 
gallery-tickets I promised thee at my new Tragedy. 

Maid. I shall never get my head-cloaths clear-starch'd at this 
rate. 

Clink. Thou destroyer of learning, thou worse than a book- 
worm! Thou hast put me beyond all patience. Remember thou 
my lyric ode bound about a tallow-candle; thy wrapping up snuff 
in an epigram; nay, the unworthy usage of my Hymn to Apollo, 
filthy creature! read me the last lines I wrote upon the Deluge, and 
take care to pronounce them as I taught you. 

Maid. SivelVd with a dropsy, sickly Nature lies, 
And melting in a diabetes, dies. 

[Reads with an affected Tone.] 

Clink. Still without cadence! 

Maid. SivelVd ivith a dropsy — 



Ixvi Introduction 



Clink. Hold! I conceive 

The roaring seas o'er the tall tvoods have broke 
And Whales now perch upon the sturdy Oak. 
Roaring? Stay. Rumbling, roaring, rustling. 
No; raging seas. {Writing.) 

The raging seas o'er the tall woods have broke 
Noic, perch, thou ivhale, upon the sturdy oak. 
Sturdy oak ? No ; steady, strong, strapping, stiff — stiff. No, stiff 
is too short. 

(Fossile and Toivnley come forward.) 
What feast for fish ! Oh too luxurious treat ! 
When hungry dolphins feed on butcher's meat. 
Foss. Neice, why neice, neice! Oh, Melpomene, ihou goddess of 
tragedy, suspend thy influence for a moment, and suffer my niece 
to give a rational answer. This lady is a friend of mine. 

Clink. Madam, excuse this absence of mind; my animal spirits 
had deserted the avenues of my senses, and retired to the recesses 
of the brain, to contemplate a beautiful idea. I could not force the 
vagrant creatures back again into their posts, to move those parts 
of the body that express civility. 

Mistress Clinket's eagerness to get her play, the theme 
of which is The Universal Deluge; or The Story of Deucalion 
and Pyrrha, on the stage, leads her to invite Sir Tre- 
mendous and some of the players to a private reading of 
the tragedy in her own parlor. But in order to escape the 
prejudices sure to bias their judgments if the play is known 
to be by a woman, she introduces young Mr. Plotwell as the 
author, while she poses as a lady patroness of letters willing 
to encourage obscure merit by this preliminary reading at 
her tea-table. The indifference with which Mr. Plotwell 
submits his supposed play to the critics, allowing them to 
blot or insert at their pleasure ; Phoebe's frantic defense of 
every mooted point; her unconcealed agony as the players 
and Sir Tremendous confide to her that the young gentleman 
knows nothing of poetry, that his play neither can take nor 
ought to take, make a very clever situation. The stage 



Introduction Ixvii 



directions in the tragedy give rise to a violent discussion. 
Clinket reads aloud: 

The scene opens, and discovers the heavens cloudy. A prodi- 
gious shoiver of rain, at a distance appears the top of the moun- 
tain, Parnassus, all the fields beneath are overflowed, there are 
seen cattle and men swimming. The tops of the steeples rise 
above the flood, with men and women perching on their weather- 
cocks. 

The bone of contention here is whether the use of weather- 
cocks must not be regarded as an anachronism ; and whether, 
indeed, according to the latest theories concerning the flood, 
the stones were not all dissolved, in which case the steeples 
themselves, being without foundations, could not support 
men and women, Plotwell carelessly abandons stones, 
steeples, weather-cocks, and all to the learning of the critics ; 
but Phoebe declares that this cavil is leveled at the whole 
drama, for the theory of dissolved stones would make the 
reparation of the human race by Deucalion and Pyrrha an 
impossibility. Portions of the opening passage of the tragedy 
are defended with spirit by Clinket as having the fire of Lee 
and the tenderness of Otway. But as the criticism grows in 
severity, she exclaims in angry protest: "Were the play mine, 
you should gash my flesh, mangle my face, anything, sooner 
than scratch my play." And when finally the diction, the 
metaphors, whole speeches, the fable, the characters are de- 
clared "monstrous," "abominable," "execrable," her agony 
overcomes her prudence, and crying out, "I'm butcher'd! 
I'm massacred!" she falls in a faint. But the crisis of her 
misery does not come until her uncle flings her papers into 
the fire, declaring that thus only can she be cured of the 
poetical itch. 

Clink. Ah! I am an undone woman. 

Plotw. Has he burned any bank-bills, or a new Mechlin head- 
dress ? 

Clink. My works! My works! 



Ixviii Introduction 



1st Play. Has he destroyed the writings of an estate, or your 
billet-doux? 

Clink. A pindaric ode! five similes! and half an epilogue! 

2nd Player. Has he thrown a new fan, or your pearl neck-lace 
into the flames? 

Clink. Worse, worse! The tags of the acts of a new Comedy! 
a Prologue sent by a person of quality! three copies of recom- 
mendatory verses ! and two Greek mottos ! 

When the play is finally refused, Plioebe is unhappy but 
philosophical. She reflects on the egregious stuff that passes 
current on the stage, and comforts herself with the thought 
that she is but one of the famous daughters of Apollo to 
sufPer because of the " wrong gout of the rabblement." And 
she felicitates herself that whatever may be said of her judg- 
ment and correctness, no one excels her in readiness and 
fertility. 

Mrs. Clinket is a prude as well as a pedant. She calls 
herself a "platonic lady" in matters of love, and boasts that 
in her plays she does not allow " the libertinism of lip- 
embraces," for, though Aristotle never actually prohibited 
kissing on the stage, she is " unwilling to stand even on the 
brink of an indecorum." Phoebe is very religious and very 
severe on the corrupt plays so popular in London. She 
chooses the Deucalion and Pyrrha version of the "Universal 
Deluge" for her tragedy because she counts neither the 
stage nor the actors of her day "hallowed enough for sacred 
story." In her attitude toward her own plays Phoebe is a 
combination of pompous self-conceit and of extreme sensi- 
tiveness to criticism. Her ruling passion is her desire to 
get her plays before the public. For that she scorns delight 
and lives laborious days. 

We learn from the Complete Key that some touches in 
this satiric portrait refer to Margaret, Duchess of Newcastle, 
but that in general the Countess of Winchilsea is the one 
ridiculed. Yet the authors of the farce were careful not to 



Introduction Ixix 



make the application too minutely exact. In two important 
respects Phoebe Clinket does not even remotely suggest Lady 
Winchilsea. The supposed tragedy is, in its theme and in 
the substance and style of the quoted passages, entirely 
unlike any work of hers. It would better serve as a travesty 
of some passages in Dryden's heroic tragedies. And then, 
again, Ardelia was as averse to any public presentation of 
her plays as Phoebe Clinket was eager for it. The impas- 
sioned "Advertisement" to Love and Innocence, written 
years before the appearance of Pope's farce, is as genuine a 
personal appeal as was ever buried away in a manuscript. 
Even after the lapse of years, even if her plays had admirable 
dramatic qualities, one would hardly feel at liberty to put 
them on the stage in the face of such a protest. And 
every other indication in Ardelia 's poems or prose writings 
emphasizes her spirit of self -depreciation, her morbid shrink- 
ing from any but the most intimate and friendly audience. 
Hence the satire is in this, its chief point, wide of the mark. 
Many minor points, however, could easily be made to apply. 
Lady Winchilsea's learning, her devotion to literary pur- 
suits, her fecundity in verse, her irritable shrinking from 
adverse criticism, her determined opposition to amatory 
themes, her preference for divine and moral songs, her 
detestation of the modern stage, are traits that tally with 
the burlesque portrait. The story of the " standish in 
every room," if not a malicious invention of Pope's, would 
of course be most wittily burlesqued by the desk strapped 
to the maid's back, and would be sufficient to locate the char- 
acter, but the story itself rests only on the doubtful 
authority of Pope. 

But in BO far as the character did suggest Lady Winchil- 
sea to hearers or readers, it was an intolerable affront. She 
was made not merely ridiculous, butodious. Swift's treat- 
ment of Mary Astell as Madonella in the Tatter papers, and 



Ixx Inteoduction 



his vulgar account of the supposed foundation and disrup- 
tion of her college, were no more unjust and libelous than 
was Pope's treatment of Lady Winchilsea in this play. Lady 
Mary Wortley Montagu as Sappho in Pope's Epistle II. had 
really less right to complain. 

There is probably a reference to this play in Gay's Wel- 
come from Greece. Among the illustrious ladies who crowd 
the quay to welcome Pope are "Winchilsea, still meditating 
song," while "afar off is frolic Bicknell," the actress who 
played Phoebe Clinket. The conjunction of names may 
be fortuitous, but it probably has covert reference to the 
play. 

This play was, unhappily, one of the last important notices 
of Lady Winchilsea's work during her lifetime. But there 
Recognition were some minor indications of favorable recog- 
After 1725 nition. Steele and Fenton published some of 

her poems in their Miscellanies of 1714 and 1717; Harris 
in his History of Kent (1719) included her Fanscomh Barn, 
with a laudatory account of her writings ; and immediately 
after her death Dr. Stukeley republished her Spleen. Twenty- 
two years later, however. Pope, in the final edition of his 
works, omitted her previously published commendatory verses, 
because, says Mr. Elwin, they were "intrinsically worthless 
and the author's name no longer carried weight." This note 
probably represents the state of the case, and the revival of 
interest in Lady Winchilsea soon after Pope's death must be 
due to Birch's General Dictionary (1734-1711), which pub- 
Birch's General lished six of her poems, five of them being from 
Dictionary h^q manuscript in the possession of the Countess 

of Hertford, and added a brief life, giving the facts repeated 
in later biographical notices. During the next thirty years 
Lady Winchilsea's name appears with some frequency. 

The purpose of John Duncomb's Feminead (1751) was 
to reveal to "lordly man" the glories of a sister-choir. In 



Introduction Ixxi 



this chivalrous enterprise he counts himself but as the coadju- 
tor of his friend Richardson, whose "Pamela" and "Clarissa" 
John Duncomb's ^^^ proved him "the sex's champion and 
Feminead constant patron," Duncomb heads the list of 

"lettered nymphs" with the chaste Orinda, but Ardelia, who 
is commended in a foot-note as a "lady of great wit and 
genius," makes a close second. It is her Spleen that rouses 
Mr. Duncomb's admiration. 

Who can immoved hear Winchilsea reveal 
Thy horrors. Spleen! which all, who paint, must feel. 
My praises would but wrong her sterling wit, 
Since Pope himself applauds what she has writ. 

In 1752 George Ballard in his Memoirs of several Ladies 
who have been celebrated for their writings or skill in the 
Ballard's learned languages, arts, and sciences, referred 

Memoirs to Lady Winchilsea as "a lady of excellent 

genius especially in poetry," and quoted her answer to 
Pope's Impromptu. 

Gibber in the Lives of the Poets (1753) quotes Pope's 
Impromptu with the comment: "The answer which the 
Gibber's Lives countess makes to the above is rather more 
of the Poets exquisite than the lines of Mr. Pope ; he is 
foiled at his own weapons, and outdone in the elegance 
of compliment." Referring to the poems in Birch's Dic- 
tionary he says: 

If all her poetical compositions are executed with as much 
spirit and elegance as these, the lovers of poetry have some reason 
to be sorry that her station was such as to exempt her from the 
necessity of more frequently exercising a genius so furnished by 
nature to have made a great figme in that divine art. 

Of the "excellent picturesqueness " of her Spleen he 
speaks in the warmest terms, and affirms that this poem 
alone would give her a " very high station among the inspired 
tribe." 



Ixxii Introduction 



In 1755 there appeared a compilation entitled Poems hy 
Eminent Ladies. It was designed, the preface tells us, as 
Eminent " ^ Solid compliment to the sex," and was put 

^^<^^^s forward as a convincing proof that "great abili- 

ties are not confined to men, and that genius often glows 
with equal warmth and perhaps with more delicacy in the 
breast of a female," Twelve poems by Lady Winchilsea are 
quoted in this volume, and for the first time the selections 
are made, not from Birch's Dictionary but from the Mis- 
cellany Poems of 1713, nine of the twelve being fables. 
Wordsworth commented most unfavorably on the literary 
insight that could choose to represent Lady Winchilsea by 
these selections. 

In Walpole's Royal and Noble Authors (1758) is the 
note which Wordsworth found so scanty and unsatisfactory 
when he was in search of information concerning Ardelia. 

The Biographia Brittanica (1763), Gough's Anecdotes 
of British Topography (1768), Granger's Biographical 
Dictionary (1769), echo in brief and perfunctory fashion the 
critical dicta of their predecessors. 

There is, then, through the century an unemphatic, 
uncritical, but persistent literary tradition that Lady Win- 
chilsea's claim to a niche in the Temple of Fame could not 
be entirely ignored. She was a countess, she wrote The 
Spleen, and Pope had praised her. These are the chief 
points on which eulogy was based. But we have also indi- 
cations of a recognition much more spontaneous and pleasing. 
In 1763 Anna Seward, a mature little lady of fifteen, was 

engaged in a serious literary correspondence 
Anna Seward Ti i i ^ i j i ,5 

well calculated to awaken parental rears lest 
she should become "that dreaded phenomenon, a learned 
lady." In the midst of counsel to a friend "the morning 
sun of whose youth is with difficulty escaping from the 
unwholesome mists of a foolish love affair," we come upon 
the followinjj bit of criticism: 



Introduction Ixxiii 



The last words of that sentence bring to my recollection a 
pleasing little poem, to which, in infancy, I have often listened 
with delight from the lips of my mother, who used frequently to 
repeat it as she sat at work. She had learnt it from a lady who 
was the friend of her youth. 

Wholly without literary curiosity, as she never saw it printed, 
so she never asked after the author; consequently could give me no 
information on that subject. She had never taken the trouble of 
copying it; therefore was it mine as it was hers, by oral tradition, 
before I attained my tenth year. Its easy and tuneful numbers 
charmed; and, with a great deal of giddy vivacity on a thousand 
occasions, I had yet an inherent fondness for seeing the perspec- 
tives of opening life through the clare-oscure of a meditative fancy, 
particularly where the sombre tints were ultimately prevalent. 

Behold this little orphan ode which I have searched for in vain 
through the pages of o\ir poets. 

Lady Winchilsea's Progress of Life is then quoted entire 
with many slight inaccuracies such as would result from oral 
transmission, but substantially identical with the form given 
in the volume of 1713. The "friend of Mrs. Seward's youth" 
must have been alive in Lady Winchilsea's day. It would 
be interesting to know who started the little poem on its oral 
way. It is at any rate a charming picture that we get of the 
gentlewoman at her needlework, perhaps — like the lady of 
the ballad, — letting "her silken seam fall till her tae" as 
she yields her spirit to the musical flow and pensive moral- 
izing of Ardelia's verse ; and of the child lured from her 
play by the charm of the words as they fall from her 
mother's lips. Another manuscript copy of this poem is to 
be found in a volume in the possession of Mr. George Finch- 
Hatton. If we may judge by verbal inaccuracies, this poem, 
too, had been orally transmitted to the writer. Such facts 
are evidences of an undercurrent of popularity, and popular- 
ity of the sort that would have been most pleasing to Ardelia. 

Miss Seward's letter continues in a strain of elegant 
criticism. She endeavors to date the poem by internal 



Ixxiv Introduction 



evidence. She feels a lack of "polished accuracy;" she 
discovers one "inadmissible inversion;" she is conscious of 
some failures in the matter of " verbal perspicuity." But 
she rejoices in the truth and pathetic sweetness of the poem, 
and she considers the stanzas after the fourth as " poetically 
faultless." Miss Seward's letter is the first instance of 
detailed criticism applied to Lady Winchilsea's verse. 

This letter was published without comment in Walter 
Scott's edition of Miss Seward's Poetical Works. Scott's 
failure to find parentage for the orphan ode is noted by 
"J. H. R." in TJie Gentleman's Magazine (1812), and he 
felicitates himself on havinor found the author. In lookingr 
over a volume of old poems he chanced upon this one 
ascribed to "Anne, Countess of Winchilsea, who lived in the 
reign of Queen Anne." He then points out the most inter- 
esting of the variations resulting from oral transmission: 

The second stanza is thus printed in Miss Seward's Works: 

How pleasing the world's prospect lies; 

How tempting to look through! 
Parnassus to the Poet's eyes. 
Nor Beauty, with her sweet surprise. 

Can more inviting shew. 

But in the volinne I have mentioned, it is inserted in the fol- 
lowing manner: 

How pleasing the world's prospect lies; 

How tempting to look through! 
Not Canaan to the Prophet's eyes, 
Nor Pisgah, with her sweet surprise. 
Can more inviting shew. 

Miss Seward's version certainly preserves more poetical oeauty, 
though perhaps the latter one is most correct. The Ode in general 
is very excellent, and is written in that style of chaste simplicity 
which was so peculiar to the Poets in the reign of Anne. 

"Was it the lady with the needlework, or the friend of her 
youth, or perhaps the swan of Lichfield herself, that thus 



Introduction Ixxv 



substituted a bit of poetical paganism for Ardelia's hon- 
est Hebraisms? Scott, it seems, did not know Lady 
Southey's Winchilsea. Southey knew her but slightly. 

Specimens jje includes her in his Specimens (1807) with the 

laconic comment: "Her poems were praised by Rowe and 
by Pope; and they deserved praise." He publishes nothing 
of hers except portions of her Petition for an Absolute 
Retreat. Much more space is devoted to Anne Killigrew, 
to Mary Barber, to Constantia Grierson, to Elizabeth Rowe. 
But Wordsworth made amends for all omissions. 

The modern interest in Lady Winchilsea's work and the 
transfer of emphasis from her poems on man to her hitherto 
William unnoticed poems on nature date from the pub- 

Wordsworth lication of Wordsworth's Essay, Supplementary 
to the Preface (1815), in which occurred the well-known 
passage : 

Now it is remarkable that, excepting the Noctiu'nal Reverie of 
Lady Winchilsea, and a passage or two in the Windsor Forest of 
Pope, the poetry intervening between the publication of the Para- 
dise Lost and the Seasons does not contain a single new image of 
external natm-e, and scarcely presents a familiar one from which 
it can be infeiTed that the eye of the Poet had been steadily fixed 
upon his object, much less that his feelings had urged him to work 
upon it in the spirit of genuine imagination. 

In 1820 Wordsworth sent Lady Mary Lowther a unique 
present. It was a manuscript volume of extracts from the 
poems of Lady Winchilsea and kindred writers. Words- 
worth had made the selections and a "female friend" had 
transcribed them for him. In the accompanying Sonnet to 
Lady Mary Lowther he explained that he had "culled this 
store of lucid crystals from a Parnassian Cave seldom trod." 
This volume is probably the one referred to by Christopher 
North when he says, " We never had in our hands the poems 
of Anne, Countess of Winchilsea, printed in 1713; but we 
well remember reading some of them in beautiful manu- 



Ixxvi Introduction 



script years ago at Rydal Mount." This book is probably 
still in existence somewhere, and the publication of it would 
be a most interesting addition to our stock of Words- 
worthiana. 

That Wordsworth's interest in Lady Winchilsea's poems 
was genuine and permanent is evinced in his correspondence 
with the Rev. Alexander Dyce, whose Specimens of British 
Poetesses appeared, in 1825. The volume made its way 
slowly and in time attracted the favorable attention of 
Wordsworth. He wrote from Rydal Mount, October 16, 
1829, to Mr. Dyce as follows: 

By accident, I learned lately that you had made a Book of 
Extracts, which I had long wished for opportunity and industry 
to execute myself. I am happy it has fallen into so much better 
hands. I allude to your Selections from the Poetry of English 
Ladies. I had only a glance at your work ; but I will take this 
opportunity of saying, that shovdd a second edition be called for, 
I should be pleased with the honor of being consulted by you 
about it. There is one poetess to whose writings I am especially 
partial, the Countess of Winchelsea. I have perused her poems 
frequently, and should be happy to name such passages as I think 
most characteristic of her genius, and most fit to be selected. 

Wordsworth's glance at the book must have been of the 
most casual sort, for he not only misquoted the title, but he 
is ignorant of the fact that Mr. Dyce's Selections included 
The Spleen, Life's Progress, The Atheist and the Acorn, 
and A Nocturnal Reverie by Lady Winchilsea, and that he 
quoted in her praise Wordsworth's own words in the Essay 
of 1815. But the next letter to Mr. Dyce shows that a copy 
of the Specimens had been sent Wordsworth, and that he 
had given it diligent attention. The letter is undated but 
bears the postmark 1830. After some preliminary discus- 
sion he writes: 

I now come to Lady Winchelsea. First, however, let me say a 
few words on one or two other authoresses of your " Specimens." 
British poetesses make but a poor figure in the " Poems by Emi- 



Introduction Ixxvii 



nent Ladies." But observing how injudicious that selection is in 
the case of Lady Winchelsea, and of Mrs. Aphra Behn (from whose 
attempts they are miserably copious) I have thought something 
better might have been chosen by more competent persons who had 
access to the volumes of the several writers 

Could you tell me anything of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu 
more than is to be learned from Pope's letters and her own ? She 
seems to have been destined for something much higher and Vxjjtter 
than she became, A parallel between her character and genius 
and that of Lady Winchelsea, her contemporary (though somewhat 
prior to her) would be well worth drawing. 

And now at last for the poems of Lady Winchelsea. I will 
transcriVx; a note from the blank leaf of my own edition written 
by me before I saw the scanty notice of her by Walpole. (By the 
by, that book has always disappointed me when I have consulted 
it on any particular occasion.) The note runs thus : ' The " Frag- 
ment," p. 13, seems to prove that she was attached to James II., 
as does p. 74, and that she suffered by the Revolution. The most 
celeV^rated of these poems, but far from the best is " The Spleen." 
"The Petition for an Absolute Retreat," and the "Nocturnal Reverie," 
are of much superior merit. See also for favorable specimens, p. 56; 
"On the Death of Mr. Thynne," p. 1.34 [Moral fSong]; and p. 13, 
" Fragment." The Fable of ' Love, Death, and Reputation,' p. 160, 
is ingeniously told.' Thus far my own note. I will now be more 
particular. P. 4, ' Our Vanity,' etc., and p. 153 are noticeable as 
giving some account from herself of her authorship. See also p. 
193, where she alludes to ' The Spleen.' She was unlucky in her 
models, Pindaric Odes, and French Fables. But see p. 49, ' The 
Blindness of Elymas,' for proof that she could write with powers of 
high order when her own individual character and personal feel- 
ings were not concerned. For less striking proofs of this power see 
p. 238, 'All is Vanity; ' omitting verses 5 and 6, and reading " clouds 
that are lost and gone," &c. There is merit in the two next stan- 
zas ; and the last stanza toward the close contains a fine reproof for 
the ostentation of Louis XIV., and one magnificent verse, 

Spent the astonished hours, forgetful Uj adore. 
But my paper is nearly out. As far as, 'For my garments,' p. 70, 
the poem is charming; it then falls off; revives at p. 72, ' Give me 
there,' p. 72 [1. 123 J. &c., reminds me of Dyer's 'Grongar Hill;' it 
revives p. 76, toward the bottom, and concludes with sentiments 



Ixxviii Introduction 



worthy of the writer, though not quite so happily expressed as other 
parts of the poem. See pp. 234, 250, ' Whilst in the Muses' path I 
stray; 'p. 183 [The Shepherd ajid the Cabn],^ The Cautious Lovers,' 
p. 147, has little poetic merit, but is worth reading as characteristic 
of the author. P. 80, ' Deep lines of honour,' etc., to ' maturer age.' 
P. 84 [The Change], if shortened, would be striking; p. 67 [Enquiry 
after Peace], characteristic; p. 57, from ' Meanwhile ye living 
parent,' to the close, omitting 'Nor could we hope,' and the five 
following verses; p. Ill, last paragraph [Oh, might I live, etc.]; p. 
136 [Life's Progress], that you have; pp. 136 [Hope], 134 [Moral 
Song]; p. 13, was Lady W. a R. Catholic? p. 267, 'And to the clouds 
proclaim thy fall;' p. 269, omit 'When scatter'd glow-worms,' and 
the next couplet. I have no more room. Pray, excuse this vile scrawl. 

In Mr. Grosart's edition Wordsworth's letter of May 10, 
1830, is put before the one just quoted. That letter has, to 
be sure, no specific date beside the postmark, 1830, but 
internal evidence seems to demand that it precede the one 
of May 10, for Wordsworth here, as will be seen, takes up 
the subject just where he left it in the undated letter. He 
writes : 

My last was, for want of room, concluded so abruptly, that I 
avail myself of an opportimity of sending you a few additional 
words, free of postage, upon the same subject. 

I observed that Lady Winchelsea was imfortunate in her models 
— Pindarics and Fables; nor does it appear from her Aristomenes 
that she would have been more successful than her contemporaries, 
if she had cultivated tragedy. She had sensibility sufficient for 
the tender parts of dramatic ^vriting, but in the stormy and tumult- 
uous she would probably have failed altogether. She seems to 
have made it a moral and religious duty to control her feelings 
lest they should mislead her. I have often applied two lines of 

her drama (p. 355) to her afifections: 

Love's soft bands, 
His gentle cords of hyacinths and roses. 
Wove in the dewy Spring when storms are silent. 

By the by, in the next page [11. 64r-5] are two impassioned lines 
spoken to a person fainting: 

Then let me hug and press thee into life. 
And lend thee motion from my beating heart. 



Introduction Ixxix 



From the style and versification of this, so much her longest work, 
I conjecture that Lady Winchelsea had but a slender acquaintance 
with the drama of the earlier part of the preceding century. Yet 
her style in rhyme is often admirable, chaste, tender, and vigorous, 
and entirely free from sparkle, antithesis, and that over-culture, 
which reminds one by its broad glare, its stiffness, and heavi- 
ness, of the double daisies of the garden, compared with their 
modest and sensitive kindred of the fields. Perhaps I am mis- 
taken, but I think there is a good deal of resemblance in her 
style and versification to that of Tickell, to whom Dr. Johnson 
justly assigns a high place among the minor poets, and of whom 
Goldsmith rightly observes, that there is a strain of ballad-thinking 
through all his poetry, and it is very attractive. 

Mr. Dyce was much impressed by Wordsworth's minute 
and apt criticisms, and apparently suggested the advisability 
of his publishing Lady Winchilsea's poems. Wordsworth 
answered, in a letter from Lowther Castle, dated September 
23, but without any year. The reference in the letter to a 
possible visit from Mr. Dyce about the " tenth December," 
throws doubt on even the month. Mr. Grosart suggests 
August, 1833. The portion of the letter referring to Lady 
Winchilsea thanks Mr. Dyce for his care in collecting and 
transmitting particulars concerning her, and concludes: 

I expected to find at this place my friend. Lady Frederick 
Bentinck, through whom I intended to renew my request for mate- 
rials, if any exist, among the Finch family, whether manuscript 
poems, or anything else that would be interesting; but Lady F., 
unluckily, is not likely to be in Westmoreland. I shall, however, 
write to her. Without some additional materials, I think I should 
scarcely feel strong enough to venture upon any species of publi- 
cation connected with this very interesting woman, notwithstand- 
ing the kind things you say of the value of my critical remarks. 

It is a far cry from this Three Hours after Marriage of 
Pope, Gay, and Arbuthnot to Wordsworth's Essay and 
his Letters, but Ardelia's fame could well afford to wait a 
century for so pronounced a revolution in taste. Words- 
worth knew her poems minutely and sympathetically. He 



Ixxx Introduction 



dwelt upon specific excellences and defects. He was 
impressed by her high qualities as a poet. He sought to 
make her known. He contemplated editing her works him- 
self. With Wordsworth begins the modern appreciation of 
Ardelia, and most critics of her verse after 1815 quote the 
Nocturnal Reverie and Wordsworth's comment. Only the 
more significant of the nineteenth century notices of her 
work demand attention here. 

Of the Nocturnal Reverie Christopher North {Black- 
wood's, March, 1837) says: 

Christopher We find nothing comparable to what we have now 
North quoted in any of the effusions of the Thirty Poetesses 

— let us by courtesy so call them — who floiurished from the death 
of Lady W. to that of Charlotte Smith. 

In Men, Women, and Books (1847) Leigh Hunt says of 
Lady Winchilsea: 

. We are now come to one of the numerous loves we 

possess among oxu grandmothers of old— or rather 
not numerous, but select, and such as keep fresh with us forever, 
like the miniature of his ancestress whom the Sultan took for a 
living beauty. This is Anne, Countess of Winchelsea (now WTitten 
Winchilsea), daughter of Sir William Kingsmill, of Sidmonton, in 
the coimty of Southampton. 

He quotes the Nocturnal Reverie with the naive critical 
method of italicizing the words and phrases he especially 
likes. The celebrated Spleen still deserves, according to 
Mr. Hunt, a place on every toilet, male and female. 

Mrs. Hale's Woman^s Record (New York, 1853), "an 

invaluable manual for the parlor table," is interesting as the 

first American recognition of Lady Winchilsea. 
Mrs. Hale 

" It should not be forgotten," Mrs. Hale says, 

" that she was the first Englishwoman who attempted to 

scale the Parnassian heights " — a neglect of the matchless 

Orinda against which Ardelia would have been the first 

to protest. 



Intkoduction Ixxxi 



The Literary Women of England (1861) is a compila- 
tion made by Jane Williams, usually known as " Ysgafell." 
Miss Williams was impelled to her work by indig- 
nation that Campbell had included in his one 
hundred and seventy British poets but one woman, and 
that Dr. Johnson had admitted not one into his society of 
fifty-two English poets. Her commentary on Lady Win- 
chilsea's work is unusually full and interesting: 

Her verses on the Spleen are very poor, and ill deserve the 
praise lavished on them by contemporary flatterers. Her answer 
to half a dozen rhymed couplets, " occasioned by four verses in 
' The Rape of the Lock,' " is sharp-witted and adroit, but pert and 
unpleasing. Her celebrated Apologue of " The Atheist and the 
Acorn " doubtless did good service in its day. It is also remark- 
able for having suggested to Hannah More another Apologue 
called " The Two Gardeners," and published in the Cheap Reposi- 
tory Tracts Any one accustomed to contemplate rural 

nature under the shades of night, in stillness and in solitude, must 
be struck with sm-prise and won to sympathy by the enchanting 
reproduction of emotions peculiar to that hour and scene in the 
" Nocturnal Reverie." It is thoroughly original; a living land- 
scape redolent of sweet tranquility, full of energy in gentlest 
exercise. The key-note of this most musical combination of words, 
thoughts, and images, seems to have been derived from Shakspeare's 
"Merchant of Venice," Act V., scene 1, where Lorenzo and Jessica 
in quiet enjoyment play upon the phrase, "In such a night." 
It is most true. 

Soft stillness and the night 
Become the touches of sweet harmony. 

Every stroke of Lady Winchilsea's description is effective ; and the 
horse, grazing leisurely and wandering at will as he crops the 
inviting herbage is wonderfully true to nature. The " Salisbury," 
whose strong and steady luster is advantageously contrasted with 
the pale and flickering sparkle of the glow-worm, was probably 
Lady Anne Tuftbn, second daughter of Thomas, sixth Earl of 
Thanet, who married in 1709, James Cecil, fifth Earl of Salisbury. 
Perhaps these verses were originally addressed to her, and perhaps 
she accompanied Lady Winchilsea in the mid-night stroll which 



Ixxxii Introduction 



occasioned them. Anyhow, this allusion indicates the existence of 
a friendship between the two countesses, and rescues the memory 

of one from the obscurity of ancestral archives Great 

experimental knowledge of human life and human feeling is mani- 
fested in this poem [The Progress of Life] ; and we are induced by 
it to regret our ignorance of that particular course of experience by 
which Lady Winchilsea acquired the wisdom which enhanced the 
power of her native genius. 

Though there might be additions to this account of the 
progress of Lady Winchilsea's fame, enough has probably 
been quoted to show her place in critical 
esteem up to the time of the publication of 
Ward'' a English Poets (1880). Wordsworth was the first 
man of authority to pronounce a discriminating eulogy on 
Ardelia, and it is evident that his judgment impressed itself 
on all succeeding criticism. But that we have any actual 
knowledge of her life and poems is due to Mr. Edmund 
Gosse. He introduced her to a large circle of readers by 
securing for her a place in Ward's English Poets. Matthew 
Arnold was emphatic in his expression of delight in Ardelia 's 
work as it stood thus revealed. The feeling of surprise and 
pleasure was general, while students of the beginnings of 
romanticism were stirred to the keenest interest by the 
quality and significance of these poems. By his suggestive 
introductory comments in English Poets, by a notice in his 
Eighteenth Century Literature (1889), and in other ways, 
did Mr. Gosse contribute to the popularity and the right 
understanding of Ardelia's verse; and, finally, in Gossij) in 
a Library (1891) he made the lady herself known to us. 
At his touch she emerged from the shadow-land of the past, 
a charming and most real personality. 

But with all this weight of high poetical and expository 
authority in favor of Ardelia, there was no opportunity to 
know more of her and her work than Ward's Selections and 
Mr. Gosse's Essay revealed. Dyce and Wordsworth had 



Introduction Ixxxiii 



contemplated an edition of her poems in 1833. In 1876 
Grosart, in his edition of Wordsworth's Prose Wor'ks, had 
complained with regard to Lady Winchilsea: "Sad to say, a 
collection of this remarkable gentlewoman's poems remains 
still an unfurnished desideratum.'''' In Ward's English Poets 
Mr. Gosse, referring to possible existing collections of her 
poems in MS., had said, "If these unpublished poems are still 
in the possession of her family, it is highly desirable that 
they should be given to the world." In his Short History of 
Eriglish Literature (1898) Mr. Saintsbury repeats the wish. 
In his finely appreciative notice, he says: 

It is a pity that her poems have not been reprinted and are 
difficult of access, for it is desirable to read the whole in order to 
appreciate the unconscious clash of style and taste in them. 

That it is, at last, possible to bring out this much -desired 
complete edition of Lady Winchilsea's work is but another 
portion of the debt she owes to Mr. Gosse, as will be seen in 
the following account of the sources of the present volume. 

The poems in this edition have been obtained from the 
printed volume of 1713, from two manuscript volumes, an 
octavo and a folio, and from scattered collections 
tbe Manuscripts °^ various sorts. Of the manuscripts the octavo, 
now in the possession of the Earl of Winchilsea, 
is doubtless the earlier in date. Its beautiful morocco binding 
and gilt edges, and the exquisitely clear and neat hand- writing 
of the most of the book show that the compilation and tran- 
scription of the poems was counted a matter worthy of elegant 
attention. But toward the end there is a lamentable decline 
from the precise accuracy of the beginning. The penman- 
ship changes and is laborious and uneven, with many 
erasures. And a critical judgment seems to have passed 
sentence on some of the work, for two poems have been 
crossed out, letter by letter, in the most painfully effective 
fashion, while several leaves have been ruthlessly excised 



Ixxxiv Introduction 



from the center of the volume. The title-page with its 
crude sketch of a cherub's wing-enfolded head, and the table 
of contents are the work apparently of the same untrained 
hand employed in copying the last poems. That the table 
of contents is an after-thought is shown by the fact that the 
excised poems are omitted, so that we do not even know 
their titles. There are many slight indications that the 
octavo is an earlier manuscript than the folio. For example, 
most of the interlineations and substitutions in the octavo 
appear in the text of the folio. " Areta," Lady Winchilsea's 
first-chosen pen-name, is crossed out in the octavo and 
"Ardelia" is written above, while in the folio, though here 
also an original "Areta" is sometimes changed to "Ardelia," 
in by far the greater number of cases, the "Ardelia" is the 
name first written. Then, too, no poem susceptible of a 
date in the octavo is later than 1689, except the last 
one, which is not the work of the original transcriber. 
This volume likewise is more intimate and personal in its 
general effect than the folio. The crossed-out poems that 
do not reappear in the folio were both personal, one 
being from Anne Kingsmill's maid of honor days, and 
one being a verse-epistle to her husband in the early 
days of their married life. Titles in the octavo carry 
out this personal impression, for they give information 
as to places and dates which do not reappear in the 
titles of the folio. For its early date, its beauty as a 
manuscript, and its personal character, this volume is of 
unique interest. It is a satisfaction to feel that after 
untracked wanderings the little book has at last its natural 
home in the library of the Earl of Winchilsea. 

Of the fifty-two poems in the octavo all but five reap- 
pear in the folio, to which we therefore turn as the real 
storehouse of Lady Winchilsea's unpublished work. This 
folio manuscript is an unusually impressive volume. Its 



Introduction Ixxxv 



size, its heavy calf binding, its fine, strong paper, its careful 
arrangement, and its expert, clerkly penmanship are a dis- 
tinct advance in dignity and stateliness of form over the 
fine-lady elegance of the earlier volume. And there was 
justification for this advance, for, to the contents of that vol- 
ume, Ardelia is now ready to add sixty-five new poems, two 
long plays, an important preface, and two commendatory 
poems. The book was not made up from time to time as 
poems were written, for poems susceptible of dates do not 
appear in chronological order. The arrangement is rather 
according to subjects from the mass of poems on hand, the 
religious poetry making one group, the songs another, the 
fables a third, and the plays a fourth. The poems of gen- 
eral or biographical interest, however, are not so classified, but 
appear in difPerent portions of the book. It is difficult to 
assign an exact date to this manuscript, but it probably 
belongs early in the eighteenth century, for it contains at 
least one poem, that on the de^th of James II., written 
after, and probably very soon after, 1701. This fact, 
together with the omission of so important a poem as the one 
on The Hurricane in 1703, would seem to date the manuscript 
about 1702. The title-page of this volume was not repro- 
duced in the printed form, but is more interesting than the 
printed one because of the characteristic quotation from 
Spenser'' s Shepherd's Calendar, June: 

I never list presume to Parnass Hill 
But piping low, in shade of lowly grove 
I play to please myself, albeit ill. 

A note in pencil at the. foot of the page says, "Ardelia 
was Anne, Countess of Winchilsea, See her poems, printed 
by John Barber on Lambeth Hill ; and sold by John Mor- 
phew, ne^ Stationer's Hall, London, 1713." The title given 
is, Miscellany Poems with two Plays by Ardelia, neither 
the title nor the note being like the corresponding items on 



Ixxxvi Introduction 



the published title-pages. The book contains numerous 
slight alterations in pencil, and since some of these notes are 
in the first person, it is probable that this manuscript was 
corrected by Ardelia herself. 

The history of this folio is also of interest. During the 
last years of the life of Heneage, fourth Earl of Winchilsea, 
one of his constant companions was Mr. John Creyk, vicar 
of Eastwell and the earl's private chaplain. In the letters 
of the earl to Dr. Stukeley Mr. Creyk is described as "my 
friend, a learned gentleman and a lover of antiquities." On 
September 30, 1726, Mr. Creyk wrote to Dr. Stukeley : 

This morning at five minutes before six I performed the dole- 
ful oflBce of closing the eyes of my dear Lord Winchilsea who died 
of the Iliac passion. 

Lord Hertford, in writing to Dr. Stukeley in April, 1727, 
says of Lord Winchilsea: 

By his will he left me his Medals and his Sark Antiquities ; 
what he wrote upon them is in possession of Mr. Creyk ; whether 
he will publish them or not I do not know ; he has the disposal of 
everything. 

In this fashion did the folio volume of poems come into 
the possession of the Creyk family, a second one of whom, 
also a Mr. John Creyk, held the vicarage of Eastwell from 
1742 to 1745. Birch in his General Dictionary (1734-1741) 
said that a great number of Lady Winchilsea's poems still 
continued unpublished "in the hands of the Rev. Mr. 
Creake." And there they apparently remained. For a hun- 
dred and forty years the manuscript quietly outlived its 
successive owners in the Creake family, till some turn of the 
wheel of fortune brought their effects to public sale. Mr. 
Gosse, in Gossij) in a Library, thus describes the manner in 
which the precious volume came into his possession: ' 

In 1884 I saw advertised, in an obscure book-list, a folio vol- 
ume of old manuscript poetry. Something excited my curiosity, 



Introduction Ixxxvii 



and I sent for it. It proved to be a vast collection of the poems of 
my beloved Anne Finch. I immediately communicated with the 
bookseller and asked him whence it came. He replied that it had 
been sold, with fm"nitui-e, pictures, and books, at the dispersing of 
the effects of a family of the name of Creake. 

The progress of the gentle lady from the sumptuous retire- 
ment of the library at Eastwell Park down the long proces- 
sion of the years had been lonely and unheralded, but it was 
surely a gracious and benignant fate that brought her at last 
to the company of her peers in the library of the man who 
had years before constituted himself her champion. And 
now two hundred years after the last words were added to 
the book by the pen of the scribe, the poems speak for the 
first time from the printed page. 

In 1713 Lady Winchilsea published a volume of selec- 
tions from her poems. There was apparently but one edition 
The Volume ^f this book, yet in the slow progress of publi- 
ofl7l3 cation two title-pages were used. The one 

dated 1713 has, in the center of the page, a wood-cut of two 
flying cherubs bearing palm branches and laurel wreaths. 
The title reads Miscellany Poems on Several Occasions. 
Wy^itten hy a Lady. The second title-page is dated 1714. 
It omits the cherubs. Written hy a Lady is changed to 
Written hy the Right Hon^^^ Anne, Countess of Winchilsea, 
a change showing probably a favorable reception of the 
earlier volumes, and certainly an advance in self-confidence. 
Of the eighty-one poems in this volume, forty-five are in 
neither of the manuscripts. It would not be entirely safe 
to assert that these new poems were all written between 
1702 and 1713, but the four to which dates may be assigned 
do belong after 1708. 

Still other poems by Lady Winchilsea are to be found 
scattered through various publications. In Steele's Miscel- 
lany, 171-4, there is one poem. To Mr. Jervas, by the Countess 



Ixxxviii Introduction 



of W , that I have not found elsewhere. Another 

unsigned poem, The Sigh, is by her, and between these two 
poems are four unsigned poems that cannot 
be certainly ascribed to Lady Winchilsea, but 
that resemble her work and may be by her. Her Lines to 
Prioi^ appear only in Prior's Miscellaneous Works. To Mr. 
Pope is found in the early collected editions of his works. 
Four poems are to be found only in Birch's General 
Dictionary. The endeavor has been to make this edi- 
tion of the poems complete, but there may be fugitive 
poems that have not been discovered. There is a possibility 
that Birch did not quote all the new poems in the manu- 
script belonging to Lady Hertford, but of that manuscript, 
if it is still in existence, I can get no trace. A more valu- 
able possible discovery would be the letters of Ardelia. She 
was highly esteemed as a correspondent and she wrote much 
to various members of the Thynne family at Longleat, to 
Lady Tufton and her daughters, to her cousin, Lady Hatton, 
to her sister Dorothy, and to many others. The publication 
of such letters, if there are any extant, would almost 
certainly be a valuable contribution to our knowledge of the 
period of William and Mary and of Anne. 



Ill 



LADY WINCHILSEA S POEMS 

What has called attention to Lady Winchilsea's work is 
not so much its intrinsic worth as its place in literary 
evolution. The chief attempt of the following brief study 
will therefore be to show the relation of her poems to those 
of other writers both before and after her day. 

A minute study of Lady Winchilsea's versification is not 
imperative, but some points are of considerable interest in 



Introduction Ixxxix 



connection witli the work of Dryden and of Pope. When 

Pope's Pastorals came out Lady Winchilsea was forty-eight 

years old, and by far the greater number of her 
VGrsific£tt)iozi 

poems had been written; hence her heroic 

couplets are to be judged by the standards of Dryden rather 
than by the stricter canons of Pope. Swift, for instance, 
boasted that his offensive triplet at the end of the City 
Shower in 1710 had killed triplets in English verse. Pope 
had likewise expressed his dislike for this break in the regu- 
larity of the couplet, and both Swift and Pope had made 
war on the Alexandrine. But Dryden, in the Preface to 
his ^neis (1697), had said of triplets and Alexandrines, "I 
regard them now as the Magna Charta of heroic poetry." 
Writing under the segis of Dryden, Lady Winchilsea would 
come strongly under the condemnation of Pope, for she used 
these two devices for varying the couplet so frequently as 
sometimes almost to destroy the couplet effect for a page at 
a time. Again, Dryden protests vigorously against the 
" shock of two vowels immediately following each other." 
"The army" leaves, he thinks, "a horrid, ill-sounding gap 
betwixt the words," while " th' army " is smooth. He there- 
fore almost invariably made use of " synaloephas," as he 
called elisions. Pope also disliked the hiatus but said that 
it was frequently to be preferred to elision, as, for example, 
"the old " is " smoother and less constrained" than "th' 
old." Lady Winchilsea holds by the canon of Dryden even 
when it gives rise to combinations so difficult as " t' attempt," 
"sh' extorts," or so broken in appearance as " th' o'r- 
shadowing," "t'o'r-match," but she rather inconsistently 
admits the hiatus sometimes when "the" is needed as 
filling for the verse, as 

We wait on the event with ease. 
In the endeavor to hold a line to ten syllables she follows 
the fashion of her day in preferring elisions to slurring or 



xc Introduction 



the substitution of the trisyllabic foot. To modern taste 
the custom of marking all metrical variations so that the 
eye as well as the ear must recognize them is annoying. 
The brackets that indicate triplets, and the apostrophes 
with which all elisions and contractions are marked seem 
to be especially in evidence in Ardelia's pages. Not only 
do all preterites and past participles where the "ed" is not 
to be separately pronounced have the "e" elided, but many 
trisyllables with an unaccented middle vowel have this 
vowel elided. Most forms of "to be" and "to have" are 
contracted with pronominal subjects, contractions so diffi- 
cult as "t'had," "t'have," "thou'dst," being not infrequent, 
while colloquial contractions, such as "'tis," "'twas," and 
"sha'nt" are much used even in serious verse. In "could" 
and similar words the "1" is elided, and "does" is written 
"do's," though for what reason is not apparent. 

Pope also objected to expletives, but Dryden's more 
rapid and freer verse did not always disdain " these fillers- 
up of unnecessary syllables," while Lady Wmchilsea certainly 
carried the easy device so far as distinctly to enfeeble her 
verse. 

In one interesting point Lady Winchilsea's verse is at 
variance with both the theory and the practice of Pope and 
of Dryden. Dryden says in the Preface to his ^neis, 

It is possible, I confess, though it rarely happens, that a verse 
of monosyllables may sound harmonious, and some examples of it 

I have seen. My first line of the ^ueis is not harsh It 

seldom happens but a monosyllabic line tui'ns verse to prose, and 
even that prose is rugged and inharmonious. Philarchus, I 
remember, taxes Balzac for placing twenty monosyllables in a file 
without one dissyllable betwixt them. 

And Pope says that monosyllabic lines unless "artfully 
managed" are "stifip, languishing, and hard." Now, mono- 
syllabic lines are of constant occurrence in Lady Winchilsea's 
verse. In short-line stanzaic forms or in octosyllabics a 



Introduction xci 



line made up of monosyllables is not unusual in the work of 
any poet, but even in such cases Lady Winchilsea's use of 
monosyllables is excessive. In the second stanza of The Wit 
and the Beau there are twenty-four monosyllables before the 
first dissyllable is reached. There are frequent octosyllabic 
couplets with no dissyllables, as, 

Love when next his leave he took 
Cast on both so sweet a look. 

Cloath me O Fate, tho' not so gay, 
Cloath me light and fresh as May. 

There are also frequent pentameter couplets with but a 
single dissyllable, and some without even the one dis- 
syllable, as, 

Thus washed in tears, as fair my soul does shew 
As the first fleece, which on the Lamb does grow. 

In the Poor MarCs Lamb, a poem of fifty-seven lines, 
from which this couplet is taken, there are eight monosylla- 
bic lines besides the couplet. Single pentameter mono- 
syllabic lines may be counted by the hundred. Even 
Alexandrines are sometimes monosyllabic, as, 

Urg'd him to keep his word and still he swore the same. 

Though some of the monosyllabic lines have vowels and 
consonants so cunningly linked, or are so placed in connec- 
tion with others of different composition that the ear is not 
conscious of any break in the general harmony, yet often the 
recurring monosyllables give an unpleasantly staccato effect, 
or they make the verse seem childish. 

In a consideration of Lady Winchilsea's rhymes their cor- 
rectness must, of course, be judged by the pronunciations 
current in her day. Certain variations from modern pro- 
nunciation are of especial interest. She almost invariably, for 
instance, rhymes '^oi" or "oy " with " i." We find the follow- 
ing as regular rhymes : join, coin + fine ; join'd, coin'd + kind ; 



xcii Introduction 



enjoy + lie; joys, noise + devise ; oyl, spoil, toil + smile; 
spoil' d + wild. "Ea" and "ai" usually rhyme with "a," 
but with interesting variations. Meat, treat, seat and other 
similar words rhyme with cate, but also sometimes with meet ; 
we find reveal, conceal + vale, but also + feel ; said + made or 
+ wed ; sais (for says) + plays ; again + vain or + men (in 
which case it is usually written " agen"); tea and sea always 
rhyme with day; but seas rhymes with ease, which in turn 
rhymes with these, but easy rhymes with lazy. We find also 
pleas' d +rais'd or+seiz'd; leave + grave or + receive (but 
receive, conceit, seize, and similar words apparently often had 
in her poems the sound of "a") ; ceas'd, feast, east, and beast 
rhyme with rest. Divert + art, reserv'd + starv'd, wreck + 
back, wreck'd + pack'd are frequent combinations. Are is fre- 
quently used with care, and were with air; wind always 
rhymes with mind. We find shew + foe or + new, been + 
sin or + seen, fault (sometimes written faught) + taught. 
The fact that all of these rhymes occur in Dryden and in 
Pope would indicate that the pronunciation of the day 
sanctioned them. 

In general it may be said of Lady Winchilsea's rhymed 
heroics that, according to the standard of her days they were 
more than respectably correct, but that she never attained to 
a conception of the couplet as the unit of verse. She has 
almost no enjambment, but she mars the couplet effect, as 
Pope conceived it, by full stops in the middle of a line or of 
a couplet, by triplets and by Alexandrines, by the use of 
feminine rhymes and by combinations of couplets with stan- 
zaic effects. Nor does she have, except faintly, the antithesis 
of idea, the structural balance of line and phrase, and the 
sharp, closing word that mark the couplet in its highest 
development. When her heroic verse is good its excellences 
arise from vigor and ease rather than from minute finish. 

Less than half of Lady Winchilsea's non-dramatic verse 



Introduction xciii 



is in the heroic couplet. Her dramas are in blank verse, 
she makes large use of octosyllabics, her hymns and songs 
show many stanzaic forms, and she has numerous pindaric 
and other irregular metrical combinations. In general the 
movement in all her lines is iambic, but An Enquiry after 
Peace is a pretty good example of the catalectic trochaic 
tetrameter, a line effectively combined with iambic tetrame- 
ters in the Petition for an Absolute Retreat. Anapaestic 
movement is found in Le Passion Vaincue, and in The 
Circuit of Apollo, where the anapsest is lightly handled for 
humorous effects. One song in this measure, Let the 
Fool still he true, only now and then catches the right 
anapsestic dance, but the Lines on a Punch Bowl, a slightly 
modified form of the same stanza, is a capital bit of versi- 
fication. Most of the stanzas are in tetrameter lines, but 
with trimeters and pentameters in frequent combinations. 
At least six stanzaic forms close with an Alexandrine, the 
sinuous length of which was apparently pleasing to Ardelia's 
ear. The stanza of The Sigh is the one most often used, but 
that of Life's Progress is more novel and used with more 
smoothness and grace. In several long stanzas there are 
sustained rhyme schemes that show a good deal of skill. 

Of Lady Winchilsea's style not much need be said. 
"Poetry requires adornment," saidDryden, "and that is not 
to be had from our old Teuton monosyllables," and hence 
his avowed ^attempt to naturalize "elegant words" from 
classic authors. But Lady Winchilsea remained strangely 
content with the Teuton monosyllables. Her diction has 
absolutely no pedantry. She errs rather on the side of 
colloquialisms, and in her humorous poems she is not afraid 
of slang. She seems always to seek for the simplest, plainest 
words she can find. Her sentences, too, are straightforward 
and intelligible. Not even her pindarics have involutions 
that really obscure the sense. She has no conceits, no 



xciv Introduction 



preciosity, almost no periphrases, and little poetic diction. 
She has surprisingly few metaphors or similes. There is no 
abundance or richness of descriptive epithets. It would, 
indeed, be difficult to find so large a body of work with less 
adornment. Frequently this extreme "plainness of style 
results in long passages that are dull, commonplace, prosaic ; 
but now and then, when Lady Winchilsea is at her best, 
when her ideas are based on deep and rich experience, her 
honesty, her reticence, her inability to say any more than 
just what she sees or feels, flowers out into an exact, lovely 
simplicity like that of the facts she records. 

Among Lady Winchilsea's earliest works are her transla- 
tions from the Italian. In spite of her association with 
Mary of Modena, she never gained more than 

^Tflusldttions 

a cursory knowledge of the Italian language, 
and she was obliged to make her translations through 
French or English versions. But it was, doubtless, while 
at court that she became acquainted with Tasso's Aininta, 
which so fascinated her that she at once secured a verbal 
translation and proceeded to turn it into verse. When, however, 
she had " finished the first Act extreamly to her satisfaction," 
and was convinced that the original " must be as soft and full 
of beautys as ever anything of that nature was," her conscience 
asserted itself, pointing out that there was nothing of "a 
serious morality or usef ullnesse " in this soft Italian pastoral, 
and remanding her to the "more sollid reasonings" of 
her own mind. In the Preface to the folio she austerely 
recorded her repentance, and her determination to devote 
herself to strictly religious verse, but she is obliged to admit 
in a footnote that she was later beguiled into " a scene or 
two more," and when she selects poems for publication five 
"pieces" out of i\\e Aminta s.rQ chosen. This translation 
and the tragi-comedy. Love and Innocence, seem to belong 
to the same early period of Ardelia's work. They are both 



Introduction xcv 



marked by a soft, vague emotionalism, a hurry and abund- 
ance of detail, a luxuriance of phrase, not characteristic of 
later poems. 

Lady Winchilsea had a competent knowledge of the 
French language and literature, but none of her translations 
from the French shows the eager delight apparent in the 
extracts from Tasso. Many of the earlier translations from 
the French read like mere exercises in versification, yet even 
here her choice of passages is rather significant. Mathurin 
Regnier caught her attention not by his clever social satire, but 
by the rarer, half-pensive moralizing of his occasional verse, 
and she reproduced his somewhat stifily allegorical Equipage. 
So, too, in Montaigne it is not the homely common sense, 
the sly wit, the shrewdness, that interest her as these quali- 
ties certainly would have done later in life, but she chooses 
for translation the fanciful love-song of the young cannibal 
chieftain. From Bussy-Rabutin she selects some of the 
rather cynical maxims on love. Another author in whom 
she was interested was Madame Deshouli^res, whose Idyls, 
especially Les Moutons, had gained for her the appellations of 
" la Calliope Franqaise,'''' '■''la dixidme Muse.'" She wasa Pre- 
cieuse, the leader of a brilliant salon, and at the same time " a 
faithful wife, tender mother, and generous friend," qualities of 
a sort to appeal to Ardelia. Perhaps, too, the cruel frankness 
with which Madame Deshouli^res was advised, on the appear- 
ance of her tragedy, to retourner a ses moutons, touched a 
sympathetic chord. The most important of the translations 
from the French is the fragment from Racine's Athalie. 
When this play was first acted in 1691 it was far from a 
success. In book-form in the same year it likewise met with 
neglect or disapproval, Boileau alone among critics prophe- 
sied its final victory, a victory that did not come till 1716. 
It therefore speaks well for Lady Winchilsea' s insight and 
independence that she should, before 1713, choose it to 



xcvi Introduction 



translate. Probably the whole drama proved a task to which 
she was unequal, but the published fragment has real merit. 
The heroic couplet necessitated some padding; at any 
rate she regarded her material with the freedom inculcated 
by Dry den, and so did not hesitate to introduce fresh details 
suggested by her knowledge of the Bible story. There is 
inevitable a loss of vigor, a slight blurring of clear-cut out- 
lines, but in general the imperious dignity, the superstitious 
terror of the beautiful and wicked daughter of the painted 
Jezebel is well maintained. Doubtless the scriptural theme 
and the elevated tone of the drama made it especially con- 
genial to Lady Winchilsea. 

" Our most vertuous Orinda " translated plays, hence 
Ardelia feels that her own dramatic attempts cannot be alto- 
gether reprehensible. Her two plays can be 
dated with some exactness. Her account of 
the writing of Aristomenes as given in the Preface definitely 
puts the composition of this play very soon after 1688. In 
the Epilogue she adds that it was written at "lonely God- 
meersham." The Prologue commemorates the first reading 
of the play to Lord Winchilsea. If this were the second 
earl, the tragedy was completed before September 1689, the 
date of his death. If the reference is to Charles, the young 
earl — and it almost certainly is — the reading of the com- 
pleted work was somewhat later, but in either case the actual 
composition belongs in 1688-91. Of Love and Innocence 
Ardelia says that it was written as an experiment to see 
whether she could carry through such an attempt; hence 
this play probably was written before Aristomenes. 

The fable of Love a^id Linocence consists of a main 
plot and a sub-plot organically interwoven. The inter- 
Love and ®^^ °^ suspense is well maintained, the double 
Innocence denouement not occuring till within a page 
or two of the end of the play. The minor crises of each 



Inteoduotion xcvii 



action are clearly marked and they contribute to bring 
about the catastrophe toward which each plot seems tend- 
ing. The deus ex machina, whereby the main plot escapes 
the apparently inevitable tragic end, is an opportunely 
furious storm by means of which the parted lovers are 
brought together, and saved, the one from suicide, the other 
from impending death. In the sub-plot the interfering 
providence is a soldier who awakens from a drunken stupor 
at just the time and place to arrest the villain and save the 
lady. The villain is the center of each story. His evil 
plans, if successful, would compass the destruction of both 
pairs of lovers. Most of the crises in the story are the 
forward steps of his machinations. The drama observes the 
unities of time and place. It is indeed, for a first attempt, 
a surprisingly well-knit piece of work. Of the characteri- 
zation less can be said. Innocence is too innocent, virtue 
too virtuous, villainy too villainous. There is no shading. 
Everything is marked off in black and white. Ardelia's 
" factious suttle villain " is not a success. He is sufficiently 
armed with evil deeds, but he fails to arouse interest. There 
are in his case none of the inciting, half-excusing causes 
apparent in Macbeth or Bichard III., nor are we for a 
moment blinded by poetic charm or over-mastering person- 
ality. Kivalto is merely a vulgar, bad man who wishes to be 
revenged on his prince for a deserved rebuke, to steal the 
money of his confederates, and to kidnap a girl who detests 
him. His motto is : 

To all my senses their full pleasure give, 
I care not how reproached or scorned I live. 

He has not even intellectual supremacy in his low plots. 
He succeeds less through his own subtlety than through the 
abnormal stupidity or credulity of his victims. Even the 
greatness of his contemplated crimes seldom raises him out 
of the commonplace. His most vigorous speech comes when 



xcviii Introduction 



he rejoices over the probable outcome of his scheme to 
defame the virtuous Great Master of Rhodes: 

Think how twill feed revenge, 
To see this Saint, this praying fighting Saint, 
This child of Fame, this cloud of Holy Incence, 
Exposed a profligate, and secret sinner. 
And like an o'er spent taper stink and vanish. 

Capriccio, the comic character, is elephantine in his 
attempted quips and cranks. The comedy scenes are not 
offensive like those of Venice Preserved, but they are crude 
and amateurish. Cappriccio as a drunkard would never 
deceive the initiated. His tipsy jokes and thirsty raptures, 
and even his slang, have a premeditated, calculated air. 
There is no abandon. His best speech is the description of 
the bacchanalian and sensual orgy that broke out in Rhodes 
with most improbable celerity on the report of Aubusson's 

sin: 

Tis a rare world, a brave world, 
A ranting, flanting, shining world; 

***** 
Never such a time in Rhodes, never such an example, 
Every one quoting the Great Master, 
And trooping on to sin, vmder his banner. 
As if they were beating up volunteers for the Devil. 

The triumph of innocence is typified by Aubusson the 
Great Master of Rhodes. For a nice courtesy, a delicately 
fastidious sense of honor, he could set the pace for Sir 
Charles Grandison, and in absolute, spotless, untempted vir- 
tue he walks in the footsteps of King Arthur. As a general 
he equals the splendid exploits of Dryden's heroes. As a 
ruler he is surnamed " The Just." But before an accusation 
of hypocrisy and secret sin he has no force, he attempts no 
defense. He withdraws like the traditional deer struck by 
the hunter's dart. He is irritatingly meek and inefficient. 
His plaintive, "Tell them I am not wicked," when accused, 



Inteoduction xcix 



and his triumphant, " I am not wicked," when his innocence 
has been attested, are without dignity or pathos. The tri- 
umph of love is illustrated by the Queen of Cyprus and her 
lover Lauredan. The women are more successfully repre- 
sented than the men. There is the real play of contending 
emotions in the portrayal of the Queen. Love, jealousy, 
hope, suspicion, despair, claim her in turn, and one of the 
most spontaneous passages in the play is expressive of her 
anger and grief when she discovers the deceptions that have 
induced her to banish her lover. In Blanfort we see pictured 
one of the astonishingly rapid emotional developments so 
frequent in contemporary tragedy. His hot-headed love for 
the queen reaches its height, and declines, and the old love 
for Marina reasserts itself with pristine vigor, all within 
seven hours. Marina is the most interesting personality in 
the play. She is a strictly romantic heroine. She would 
be an appropriate Sylvia, for instance, for the Daphne of the 
Aminta. She is apparently Ardelia in the stage of expe- 
rience represented by the Lines to Prior and the translations 
from Tasso. The character of Marina reminds one of 
Wordsworth's conjecture that Lady Winchilsea gave up 
love-poetry because she could not sufficiently temper its 
transports. The chief characteristics of Marina's love are 
its extravagance and self-abnegation. Her conception of 
" immortal blisse " is to have ' ' her lover stretch at her feet for 
hours imprinting kisses on her hand by thousands." Soft, 
modest, tender by nature, poetic, sensitive, dreamy, she lives 
in her emotions, but in endurance of injuries inflicted by a 
false lover she is a very patient Griselda. With none of the 
dash, sparkle, and independence of Rosalind, with no abet- 
tors like Celia and the Fool, Marina is driven by love to a 
more strenuous enterprise than their holiday visit to the 
Forest of Arden. Alone, disguised as a man, she seeks 
a foreign court, consorts with rough soldiers, listens to the 



Inteodugtion 



raptures of her recreant lover for the Queen, and meanwhile 
is defenceless before the tempestuous and vulgar wooing 
of the villain, Rivalto. Finally, last test of the romantic 
heroine, she can submit to poverty and shame, can give her 
lover up to a rival Fair One if he so decrees, and can die with 
prayers for their happiness on her lips. Most of the effective 
passages in the play have to do with Marina. Take, for 
example, this description of the love-nest at Rome where 
Blanfort won her heart: 

The place, oh! twas most fit for the occasion, 
Secret and blooming with the verdant spring ; 
A Grove of mirtles, compassed itt about, 
Which gave no more admittance to the Sun 
Then served to chear the new appearing flowers, 
And tell the birds itt was their time to sing. 
A crystal spring, stole through the tufted grasse. 
Hasting to reach a fountain which itt fed. 
But murmur'd still, when 'ere it found a stop. 

The description of Marina herself is almost as charming 
as Marvell's lines on Maria and not unlike them: 

'Twas here, my lord, neer to this fountain's side, 

I saw the Maid, the soft, the charming maid. 

That seemed to give the sweetness to the place. 

And in herself possesst all I've described, 

The season's youth, and freshnesse of the flowers, 

The harmony of all the tunefull birds. 

And clearness of the Spring on which she gaz'd. 

Marina is, in truth, a winning and pathetic character, and 
it is a pity that her fidelity could not have a better reward 
than the regained love of the handsome, inconstant, selfish 
Blanfort. 

The play closes with a proper distribution of rewards. 
Punishments are not, however, so meted out. The villain, 
Rivalto, is romantically, and in the grand style, forgiven, and 
even furnished with funds. But he takes himself off with 



Introduction ei 



a not altogether Tinintelligible distate for the abundant, self- 
conscious, successful virtue blooming about him. 

Aristomenes follows the fashion set by Dryden, Lee, and 
Otway, in presenting as its hero a noted historical character. 
Most of the events and most of the personages 
come with little change from the narrative of 
Pausanias, but Ardelia successfully manipulates dates and 
places in such a way as to bring the more picturesque por- 
tions of the life of Aristomenes very nearly within the compass 
prescribed by the unities, and that without too great sacrifice 
of probability or ordered sequence. The escape of Aristo- 
menes from the cave by means of the fox, and his rescue 
through the assistance of Amalintha, the daughter of his 
enemy, are cleverly made parts of a single incident, and 
Amalintha's act is motived by the love she bears Aristor, 
the son of Aristomenes. This love is also elaborated into 
one of the sub-intrigues, another being the love between 
Demagetus, son to the Prince of Rhodes, and Herminia, 
daughter to Aristomenes. The play is curiously constructed, 
all the complications of the two subordinate love-stories hav- 
ing reached an apparently happy termination before the 
fifth act, and the hero, likewise, having succeeded in 
his contest with Sparta. But then a new set of cir- 
cumstances brings about a tragic end. Ardelia calls this 
play "wholly tragical," but till near the end it certainly 
moves likes a tragi-comedy. The real purpose of the play 
is to present the character rather than the fortunes of Aris- 
tomenes. He is shown in success and in failure, in joy 
and in sorrow, always with the intent that he may prove 
himself 'the best of men and serve as an incitement to virtue 
and to wisdom. He is the Aubusson of Love and Innocence. 
We see him idolized by the soldiers, loved and reverenced 
by his children, adored by the people. In war he is a lion. 
In captivity he speaks out brave words of defiance. His 



cii Introduction 



wits are keen, his nerves steady, his personal resource 
unfailing. Just, generous, forgiving, with high spirit and 
passionate emotions, he yet is but an aggregation of virtues, 
not a man. 

There are more reminisences of the heroic tragedy in this 
play than in Love and Innocence. The prison-scene between 
Aristor and Amalintha is not without some likeness to the 
wit-combats popular in Dryden's day. The long death-scene 
when Aristor, mortally wounded in the battle, conceals his 
wound from Amalintha, and Amalintha, likewise mortally 
wounded, conceals her wound from Aristor, until they die 
almost simultaneously, the promptness with which the nurse 
expires on seeing their dead bodies, the unanimity with 
which the others prepare to fall on their swords, carry us 
into just the air of extravagant unreality found in many 
of the tragic closing scenes of the heroic drama. On the 
stage Aristomenes would offer bustle and variety, with its 
clamor and hurry of war, its pastoral love-making, its assem- 
blies of state, its prison-scenes, and its underground caves 
with spectral musicians; but it would hardly hold interest 
either by the plot or the characters. 

Wordsworth commented on the lines: 

Love's soft bands. 
His gentle cords of Hyacinths and Roses, 
Wove in the dewy spring whem storms are silent, 

as a characteristic passage, but more characteristic and quite 
as charming are the pathetic words of Amalintha: 

But are there none, none that do Live and Love. 
That early meet, and in the Spring of Youth, 
Uncrossed, nor troubled in the soft design, 
Set sweetly out, and travel on to age, 
In mutual joys, that with themselves expire. 

Of great beauty is the lament of Aristomenes for his son 
Aristor : 



Introduction ciii 



The Sun will Keep his pace, and Time revolve, 
Rough Winters pass, and Springs come smiling on ; 
But thou dost talk of Never, Demagetus : 
Yet ere Despair prevails, retract that word. 
Whose cloudy distance bars the reach of thought. 
Aristor rather subtly analyzes the process of falling in 
love. He says to Amalintha: 

I saw you Fair, beyond the Fame of Helen ; 

But Beauty's vain, and fond of new applause. 

Leaving the last Adoarer in despair 

At his approach, who can but praise it better: 

Whilst Love, Narcissus-like, courts his reflection, 

And seeks itself gazing on .Others eyes. 

When this I found in yoins, it bred that passion, 

Which Time, nor Age, nor Death, shall ere diminish. 

Almeria in Ardelia to Eplielia says that Ardelia 
Speaks of Otaway with such delight 
As if no other pen could move or write. 

and various passages emphasize her partiality for Tlie Orphan 
and Venice Preserved, which came out when she was nine- 
teen and twenty-one years of age, at just the right time to 
affect her taste and guide her eflPorts. Otway's tragic 
death occurred while she was still in London, three or four 
years before the composition of her plays. Her attention 
was thus strongly directed to him, and it is not strange that 
her work should betray his influence. She read Lee with 
admiration, but she could not have imitated the Rival Queens. 
Lee at his best and at his worst was out of her range. But 
the tenderness and delicacy of Otway, the pathetic sweetness 
of his verse, and his love of external nature, would all strike 
a responsive chord in her mind and heart. 

Of the songs, eighteen appear in the first manuscript. 

These are copied into the folio with seven or eight additions, 

but the impulse to song-writing died early, nor 

°°^^ did Lady Winchilsea later set much value on 

this portion of her work. Her acknowledgement of indebt- 



civ Introduction 



edness to Prior must refer to her conventional love-lyrics and 
her few convivial songs; and so far as dates go it is not 
impossible that Prior should have been influential in turning 
her attention to this sort of writing, for though his songs 
were not published till 1709, many of them were written as 
early as 1692, and they were well-known in manuscript. 
Doubtless these songs would find their way to Eastwell and 
they might so have caught Ardelia's ear and attuned it to 
novel melodies. The impulse must, however, have been one 
quickly acted on, for Ardelia's songs are very nearly con- 
temporary with Prior's. Beyond this suggestion or impulse, 
Prior's influence on Lady Winchilsea is not apparent. She 
calls him the master-singer, while she is but the bird crudely 
striving to imitate his ravishing notes ; but this is an overstate- 
ment. Certainly where Prior is most characteristic it is 
impossible that she should imitate him. She was too inflexi- 
ble, too serious, too deeply conscious of realities, to reproduce 
the abandon, the gayety, the dash, the moral indifference, of 
Prior's captivating appeals to Chloe. Lei the Fool Still Be 
True and If for a Woman I Would Die have something of 
Prior's spirit. But though Ardelia touches with some deft- 
ness the philosophy of the butterfly lover who, inconstant 

to one, 

Can each Beauty adore, 
And love all, and love all, and love all, and forever, 

she much more effectively represents the dark obverse, 

Who make the hearts of men their care 
Will have their own betrayed. 

Ardelia's delicately imaginative appreciation of the Punch 
Bowl in the lines to Leslie Finch must free her from any 
suspicion of a puritanic rigor hardly known in her day, but 
her other poems on wine were never inspired by the god of 
mirth. The riotous glee of Prior's 

'Tis the mistress, the friend, and the bottle, old boy ! 



il 



Introduction cv 



was not only outside the compass of her lyre, but typified 
a bacchanalian excess that aroused her strongest disapproval. 
According to her theory, which is not without a certain novel 
pungency, wine makes of the heart "an inaccessible island" 
to which no nymph need try to win her way. 

Ardelia's best songs are not in Prior's vein at all. The 
Losse, A Sigh, The Progress of Life, are marked by a 
strain of tender, subdued melancholy as natural to Ardelia 
as the flippant gayety of the conventional love-song was alien 
to her. To Grief, a little poem inspired by the troubles of 
1688, has dignity, reserve, and genuine pathos. It is in sad 
little poems, the direct and simple outcome of her own expe- 
rience, that her lyric impulse finds most nearly adequate 
expression. 

Lady Winchilsea's religious poems are nearly all direct 
paraphrases from Scripture passages, or they are so saturated 
Religious ^'\^ biblical phraseology as to read like para- 

Poems phrases. In such poems the simplicity and 

literary distinction of the original must always make the 
smoothest pindaric, or stanzaic, or heroic reproductions seem, 
to say the least, superfluous. But aside from this objection, 
Ardelia's religious poetry is of especial interest. The 
delight with which she wrote it resulted in an unusual vigor 
and variety of versification. And in mood and theme these 
poems contribute much to a statement of her philosophy of 
life. The bitter and almost contemptuous resume of human 
ambitions and attainments that characterizes the early work 
of both Mary of Modena's rhyming maids of honor seems 
to have been a genuine expression of opinion. The lament 
of the preacher was a view of life quite natural to detached 
and sober-minded observers in the reign of Charles II. But 
philosophic pessimism was not to be Ardelia's permanent 
mental attitude. Definite trials soon brought her face to 
face with spiritual experiences of a more personal sort. 



cvi Introduction 



Even in her gayest days she was incapable temperamentally 
of drowning grief by an acceptance of the epicurean philoso- 
phy. Her summary of this doctrine in The Wisdom of 
Solomon is probably her best heroic verse, but the doctrine 
itself is vigorously remanded to "th' industrious Devil." 
It was impossible that carpe diem should be her motto. It 
was her tendency to look before and after, and her tempta- 
tion when trials came was to fall into a state of distrust and 
despair. The shortness of life, the failure of the highest 
hopes, the prosperity of the wicked, the affliction of the 
righteous, were facts that stirred her to doubts and ques- 
tionings, and the supreme religious experience commemorated 
in her poems is her struggle to interpret and accept sorrow 
according to the Christian ideal. She persistently describes 
grief as the line by which every saint is measured, as the 
furnace fire that tries the gold of true piety, as the only 
" certain purifying roade " that leads to the Heavenly City. 
For the earthly life Ardelia's ideal is the via media. Accord- 
ing to her philosophy " all extreams to their own Ruine 
haste." To walk quietly and steadily, to hold oneself in 
hand, to realize that 

No Joy a Rapture must create, 
No Grief beget Despair, 

in a word, to have the sources of life independent of 
externals, is her creed. But in her pictures of the final 
happiness of victorious saints, her eagerness and longing 
find expression in phrases more nearly akin to the " enthu- 
siasm" of Watts and the Wesleys than to the formal 
morality of her own day. 

In an Ode to Cowley Bishop Sprat said, 

-j^ Pindar has left his barbarous Greece, and thkiks it just 

Pindaric To be led by thee to the English shore ; 

Odes An honour to him. 

Pindar was, in fact, known to the seventeenth century only 



Introduction cvii 



through Cowley and his imitators. But Congreve said in 
his Discourse [circa 1706) that Cowley not only had not 
brought Pindar to England, but had, through his "irregular 
Odes," been the principal, though innocent, cause of the 
great crowd of deformed poems supposedly formed on 
Pindar. From this time on there was a reaction against the 
more extreme licenses of the pindaric form. But the school 
of Cowley held that the true pindaric marks were exalted 
themes, striking and unusual figures, abrupt transitions, 
impetuosity and excitement of mood, with an extreme com- 
plexity and irregularity of stanzaic structure and rhyme 
scheme. Lady Winchilsea's three Odes come between 1694 
and 1703, hence they belong to the last period of Cowley's 
influence and just before the reactionary period set in. She 
called Cowley master, and theoretically she accepted his 
pindaric conventions ; but her Odes, while irregular, are not 
markedly so, nor have they any of the "flights" of Cowley's 
Odes, nor any of the conceits. Lady Winchilsea had an 
inherent respect for order and coherence, and she could 
never quite trust herself to the stiff gale on which the 
Theban swan was supposed to stretch his wings. Hence 
her pindarics seldom " toil too much the reader's ear." The 
themes, moreover, are interesting. All is Vanity is, to be 
sure, timid, and too much a versified resume of her reading, 
but it is well-knit, and its fearless outlook, its dignity and 
controlled pathos, make it a promising early poem. The 
Spleen has none of the softness and grace of All is Vanity. 
It reads like more mature work. It is more keenly analytic, 
the outlines are sharper, and the material is more frankly 
based on observation and experience. The third ode. On the 
Hurricane, written in 1703, immediately after the disas- 
trous storm of November 27, 1703, is longer and much 
looser in structure than the other odes. It was evidently 
written in great haste and while the events of the storm 



cviii Introduction 



were still fresh iu memory. Its chief value is in descriptive 

passages which will be spoken of later. 

At the beginning of the eighteenth century there was a 

new and- wide spread interest in fables. English prose ver- 
sions of JEsop had held their place in popular 

Her Fables r r i 

favor from the days of Caxton down, and the 

Latin ^sop was in use in the schools, but it is to La Fon- 
taine that this striking revival of interest is chiefly due. The 
first six books of his Fables were published in France in 
1668, other parts appearing in 1671, 1678, 1679, and the 
twelve books in 1694. Their popularity in England is 
shown by a remark of Addison, who, writing in 1711 in 
praise of fables, says that La Fontaine " by this way of writ- 
ing is come into vogue more than any other Author of our 
times." In 1692 appeared the first edition of Sir Roger 
L'Estrange's collection, in which he added to the fables of 
iEsop most of the new sets of fables that had been published 
abroad. In spite of the size of this extensive compilation it 
quickly passed through seven editions. L'Estrange's idio- 
matic and telling prose versions of the old tales were 
weighted down by "morals" and "reflexions," written 
purely from the point of view of a Tory statesman. In 1722 
the ever-useful jEsop was used by the Rev. Samuel Croxall 
to establish Whig doctrines. These versions served to make 
the fables widely known, but it was not till the appearance 
of Gay's Fables in 1728 that there was any notable attempt 
to follow in English the versified fable of La Fontaine, and 
Gay has always been counted the progenitor of the race of 
verse fable-writers in England. It seems rather surprising 
that the first quarter of the eighteenth century should not 
have been a fable-writing as well as a fable-reading age. 
One is led to join in Shenstone's regret that Addison did 
not write fables, his purity of style, his dry humor, his easy 
manner, being qualities likely to insure success. Swift, too. 



Introduction cix 



would seem to have had some natural affinities for the fable 
form, but though he said there was no kind of writing he 
esteemed more, he was forced to acknowledge that he had 
"frequently endeavoured at it in vain." Gay agrees in 
counting the fable a most difficult kind of writing, saying 
that when he had completed one he was always in despair of 
ever being able to find another. It is, perhaps, this real 
difficulty under the apparent ease and naturalness that 
warned off many writers to whom the opportunity for effect- 
ive moralizing would have made the fable a seductive form. 
At any rate the fact stands that before Gay, Lady Winchilsea 
holds a solitary pre-eminence as an English fable-writer in 
the manner of La Fontaine. But two of her fables appear 
in the folio and none in the earlier manuscript. They were 
probably all written between 1700 and 1713. She formed 
herself almost entirely on La Fontaine, who had broken dis- 
tinctly with the literary tradition of his predecessors. It 
had been said that the ornament of the fable was no orna- 
ment, that brevity and conciseness were essential, that morals 
must be explicitly stated. But La Fontaine deliberately 
challenged this conception. He set himself to ''^ e gayer'''' the 
tales, to add to them something of novelty and adornment, 
to show that the fables would not resent les graces lacSd^- 
moniennes. It was to this fable convention that Lady 
Winchilsea gave allegiance. She does not attempt, as did 
Gay, originality of invention, but relies as frankly on La 
Fontaine and L'Estrange as they had relied on their prede- 
cessors, and she follows her models with as widely varying 
degrees of fidelity as did they. Sometimes her fable is a 
mere translation of La Fontaine, holding as close to the 
original as verse translation would allow ; but in general 
the material is treated with great freedom. Two lines are 
expanded into as many pages ; there are large omissions and 
frequent condensations; details are replaced by others giv- 



ex Introduction 



ing English local color; fables are broken in two; morals 
are added or altered; titles are changed. But, though influ- 
enced now and again by L'Estrange's racy idiom, "the easy 
words," "the plain honest English" on which he prided 
himself, she holds throughout to La Fontaine's ideal of 
smooth, graceful, amplified narration. 

Lady Winchilsea's most famous fable is Tlie Atheist and 
the Acorn. This poem is a brief and picturesque version of 
La Fontaine's La gland et la citrouille. It is not an 
-^sopic fable but was based on a tale found in various forms 
in several sources open to La Fontaine, It excited much 
attention when it first appeared in French in 1671. Lady 
Winchilsea's change of the naive countryman into the 
sophisticated atheist involves much loss in the way of humor- 
ous contrast. But the French Garo and the English 
Atheist alike speak with scorn of the providential ordering 
that could assign acorns to lordly oaks and pumpkins to 
slender vines. And each, reclining under the tree in fatu- 
ous self-complacency, on being hit in the eye by an acorn, 
is led to justify the ways of God to man by the reflection 
that had the acorn been a pumpkin, not his eye only, but his 
precious brain itself would have suJEPered damage. Neither 
La Fontaine nor Lady Winchilsea nor any of their readers 
seemed to feel what Voltaire pitilessly pointed out, the 
^^6goisme comique'''' of this argumentum ad hominem. On 
the contrary, Garo and the Atheist held their own for a cen- 
tury as apt illustrations of the creed formulated by Pope, 
"Whatever is, is best." 

In spite of the fact that fables constitute one-third of 
her published work. Lady Winchilsea speaks lightly of them 
in general, calling them "childish Tales" by which "lazy 
Triflers" seek to purchase fame. And Wordsworth regretted 
that she should have spent so much time on an inferior 
species of poetry. Yet in a general survey of her work the 



Introduction cxi 



fables are of importance for various reasons. They show 
her first in the field with a poetic form destined to great 
popularity in succeeding years; they reveal her opinions; 
they are vignettes of social satire; and they are interesting 
examples of versification. 

One line of reading in which Lady Winchilsea was much 
interested was the critical literature of her own day. 
Verse Boileau's U Art Po6iique (1673) had stimu- 

Criticism lated verse criticism in England as well as in 

France. The Earl of Mulgrave's Essay on Satire (1679), 
his Essay on Poetry (1682), Roscommon's Essay on Trans- 
lated Verse (1681), his translation of Horace's Ars Poetica 
(1680), Sir William Soame's paraphrase and adaptation of 
Boileau's E Art Po6tique (1683), were verse renderings of 
the critical dicta counted most authoritative by the late 
seventeenth century writers. All of these, with the addition 
of Rapin and Madame Dacier, Lady Winchilsea knew well. 
Horace and the Stagirite are the critical law-givers, but 
Mulgrave is their prophet, and she finds his Essay on 
Poe/?'7/ as " delightsome " as it is instructive. But it is 
Dryden, she thinks, who has laid open the very mysteries of 
poetry and made the whole art so clear that even females 
should be held accountable if they transgress the rules. 

Of critical work on her own account Lady Winchilsea 
gives us little, but that little is not without interest. Poets 
should " teach while they divert" is her creed. Poetry may 
be allowed to "stir up soft thoughts," but this must be 
delicately and modestly done so as to cause no blushes, and 
poetry most successfully responds to its divine origin when 
it leads men "back to the Blissful Seats Above." Yet she 
seems to refer with some regret to the days of Charles II, when 

Witty beggars were in fashion, 
And learning had o're-run the Nation. 

The Merry Monarch, "so nice himself," and the " refin"der 



cxii Introduction 



sort" knew a good play when they heard it, but the literary 
standards of her own day are, she thinks, much coarser and 
less critical. The Miser and the Poet is a humorous 
arraignment of the age for its failure to give poets due 
recognition, a subject cleverly worked up in Ardelia's 
Return Home. In the Critic and the Writer of Fables she 
gives delightful little burlesques of the popular literary 
forms, the pastoral, the heroic poem, and the fable. In 
the closing lines of this poem, operas and panegyrics are 
coupled as the two forms of literature most certain of pleas- 
ing. This fling at the Italian opera is but an early expres- 
sion of the critical attitude that found full statement in the 
Dunciad, and that contributed to the gusto with which TJie 
Beggar's Opera was received. Panegyric, though that was 
her own fertile vein, always awakened Ardelia's laughter. 
When she went to Apollo once for aid, his excuse for not 
loaning Pegasus was that this weary steed had been of late 
so spurred through thick and thin in panegyric, that he 
could no longer endure the bit — a sarcastic reference, 
doubtless, since the poem was written in 1689, to the poeti- 
cal tributes incident to the revolution. In comedy Lady 
Winchilsea preferred Etheredge and Wycherley because 
they had more "sense and nature" than their successors — a 
literary judgment enunciated, however, before Congreve had 
begun to write. In tragedy Dryden, Lee, and Otway, 
especially Otway, are her masters. It is a pity that Lady 
Winchilsea's critical remarks are so few, for they show con- 
siderable acumen and an unexpected cleverness in playfully 
sarcastic analysis. 

Dr. Johnson calls Tlie Splendid Shilling of Philips " a 
mode of writing new and unexpected," and it is probable 
Fanscomb ^^^^^ Philips's poem, which came out in 1701, 

^"° gave Lady Winchilsea the hint for her Fans- 

comb Barn, which, since this poem does not appeat in either 



Introduction cxiii 



the octavo or the folio manuscript, was probably written after 
1701. The novelty of Philips's poetical experiment in 
applying the splendid diction and elaborate sentence struc- 
ture of Milton to the description of the trivial or vulgar 
events of ordinary life caught Lady Winchilsea's fancy, and 
she made use of the Miltonic blank verse to portray the 
tramps that congregated in Fanscomb Barn. Her poem is 
almost as successful a parody of Milton's style as is The 
Splendid Shilling, and the amusing contrast between the style 
and the subject-matter is as well sustained. But the chief 
importance of Lady Winchilsea's poem is in the subject- 
matter itself. Stropeledon and Bugeta with their "hoof- 
beating " compeers of the beggars' fraternity would find 
no worthy comrades till they could visit the ale-house of 
Ramsay's Maggie Johnstone, and they would not feel quite 
at home till they could consort with their kith and kin, the 
jolly beggars of Burns. Lady Winchilsea is as free as 
Ramsay or Burns from any display of moral censorship 
toward her tramps. They lie and steal and drink and brag 
with a self-complacency equal to that of the highwaymen 
and trulls of Gay's Beggar's Opera. Stropeledon counts 
mendicancy a profession with inevitable privations and hard- 
ships, but with well-earned hours of luxurious repose. 
He and his Bugeta grow confidential and boozy over their 
cups, recount their lawless deeds, and finally fall down in a 
drunken stupor, without a word of condemnation from their 
lady chronicler. A subsidiary little picture of the children 
drinking sugared water at Pickersdane Well is also sympa- 
thetically drawn, and approaches in effectiveness the descrip- 
tion of the children at their sports by Shenstone in The 
School-Mistress. We can hardly say with Dr. Harris, pre- 
bendary of Rochester and rector of Winchilsea, that both 
Pickersdane Well and Fanscomb Barn have been "dignified" 
by the pen of a "notable Kentish Poetess;" but we can say 



Introduction 



what is far more significant, and that is that the notable 
poetess wrote the first of modern tramp-poems and gave the 
earliest effective modern picture of English peasant school- 
children, and that she was one of the first to write in blank 
verse of the Miltonic pattern. 

During Lady Winchilsea's early maid of honor days the 
chief literary sensation in the court circle was Dryden's 
satires and the ensuing host of lampoons and 
libels. No personal portraits so masterly and 
so malicious as those by Dry den had before appeared in 
English literature. Nor during Lady Winchilsea's period 
of poetical production did any other portraits so masterly 
appear, but the malice remained as the possession of all the 
Grub-street race. There were no more great satiric poems till 
Pope, but there was, in the meantime, plenty of snarling and 
snapping. The detracting, censorious spirit was pervasive. 
Against this Ardelia uttered her protest. Indeed, she 
rather plumed herself on the fact that her own resentments 
had never but once lured her into personal satiric verse. 
And this, too, in spite of the tempting inner consciousness 
that she could tag rhymes in abuse of her neighbors as well 
as another if she would but set her hand to such business. 
Yet Lady Winchilsea was much more of a satirist than she 
was willing to admit, for besides the one satiric poem to 
which she confesses, there is a vein of satiric comment 
giving tang and pungency to many poems. 

The more we study Lady Winchilsea's work, the more 
certain it becomes that, in her youth at least, the phrase 
"the gentle Ardelia," could never have been rightly applied 
to her. Life at Eastwell brought serenity, but her young 
womanhood seems to have been one of smothered revolt. 
Bred at court, she was yet mentally at war with contempo- 
rary social, religious, and literary ideals, and, on a surprising 
number of topics, she expresses herself with caustic severity. 



Introduction cxv 



The Fair Sex, and especially the dominant ideal concern- 
ing woman's work and woman's education, was the theme 
most certain to touch her pen with bitterness. In her 
famous Preface of 1703, Mary Astell says: 

In the first place, Boys have much Time and Pains, Care and 
Cost bestowed on their education, Girls have little or none. The 
former are early initiated in the Sciences, are made acquainted with 
Antient and Modern Discoveries, they Study Books and Men, have 
all imaginable encouragement; not only Fame, a dry reward now- 
a-days, but also Title, Authority, Power, and Riches themselves 
which purchase all things, are the reward of their improvement. 
The latter are restricted, frown'd upon, beat not for but from the 
Muses; Laughter and Ridicule that never-failing Scare-Crow is set 
up to drive them from the Tree of Knowledge. But if in spite of 
all difficulties Nature prevails, and they can't be kept so ignorant 
as their masters would have them, they are stared upon as Mon- 
sters, Censirred, Envyd and every way discouraged, or at the best 
they have the Fate the Proverb assigns them: Virtue is praised 
and starved. 

These words must have been read with secret satisfaction 
by Lady Winchilsea, for she had, years before, confided 
similar ideas to that gilt-edged, morocco-bound, diffident 
first manuscript of hers, and had summed up the situation 
in the epigrammatic phrase, " Women are Education's and 
not Nature's Fools." To read, to write, to think, to study — 
these, she indignantly exclaims, are tabooed lest they should 
cloud a woman's beauty, and exhaust the time more profit- 
ably spent in adorning herself for conquest. She resents 
the commonly received opinion that dressing and dancing, 
fashions and theaters, are woman's only legitimate interests. 
She resents with equal emphasis the ultra-domestic ideal. 
She frankly declares that she, at least, was never meant for 
"the dull manage of a servile house." Her own tastes are 
of the simplest. Of her table she asks little except that it 
be "set without her care." She can dispense with "orto- 
lane," " treufles," and " morilia," but leisure and a free 



cxvi Introduction 



mind are necessities. For fashion she cares not at all, and 
discussions concerning brocades and laces infinitely weary 
her. A new gown in spring, when the lilies and the birds 
put on fresh attire, quite satisfies her ambition in the way of 
apparel. Against the so-called feminine accomplishments 
of her day she puts herself definitely on record. She 
simply will not, she declares, 

in fading silks compose, 
Faintly, the inimitable Rose, 
Fill up an ill-drawn Bird, or paint on Glass, 
The Sovereign's blurred and imdistingmshed face, 
The threatening Angel and the Speaking Ass. 

The courageous expression of tastes so unconventional 
inevitably made Ardelia the target for ill-natured jests, ajad 
the jests bore their natural fruit in bitterness of spirit. It 
is, however, the prejudice against women authors of which 
Ardelia is most acutely conscious. During her memorably 
unhappy visit to London, shortly after her retirement to 
Eastwell, the caustic social commentary that fell trippingly 
from the gay Almeria's tongue reached its unendurable 
climax when that young gossip pointed out with a sneer, " a 
poetess! a woman who writes, a common jest!" Then 
Ardelia's prudence and politeness give way to an indignant 
sense of justice. "Why," she exclaims, "should this 
poetess be a common jest? Does she make public boast of 
her skill ? Does she write a song so popular that the car-men 
sing it, and then allow her name to be flourished above it ? 
Does she cause herself to be painted with a laurel wreath 
and with commendatory verses encircling her picture? 
Does she write lampoons? " So the badgered Ardelia, stung 
by the secret knowledge of a tell-tale portfolio of rhymes 
down at Eastwell, frees her mind for the nonce. But she 
can never quite escape the benumbing conviction that a 
woman who delights in the groves and secret springs of the 
muses, who thus "deviates from the known and common 



Inteoduction cxvii 



way," who dares to trace " unusual things," will be con- 
sidered an intruder on the rights of men, a presumptuous 
creature whom no excellence of work can justify, and in 
many a dark moment she is ready to confess that " a 
woman's way to charm is not by writing." But when the 
splenetic mood is past she brings forth all sorts of defensive 
arguments, her best weapons being always drawn from the 
arsenal of the Old Testament. It was, in fact, almost 
imperative to carry on the contest with Hebrew arguments, 
for the foes to the advancement of women had from the out- 
set massed their forces in the Garden of Eden. This sort 
of discussion is well illustrated in some contemporary 
anonymous letters between a certain Chloe and Urania who 
are discussing woman's education. Chloe, being a repre- 
sentative Fair One, cannot argue for herself, but she repeats 
with pretty docility, and much apparent loss of force, the 
arguments of her lover, Lysander. His reasoning is to the 
effect that " in the Beginning Woman was created for 
Obedience and Ma7i for Rule,'''' but that if to the beauty of 
woman reason should be added, not Deity itself could main- 
tain the order of precedence. Urania in answer merely 
expresses a laconic surprise that Lysander should be so inti- 
mately in the secret counsels of the Almighty. But Mary 
Astell takes up, in a minute and exhaustive manner, the texts 
commonly quoted against female education, and she reaches 
the comforting conclusion that the " Bible is for, and not 
against us, and cannot, without great violence done to it, be 
urg'd to our prejudice." And Lady Winchilsea earnestly 
reminds her readers that holy virgins joined in the song 
when the ark was brought back ; that conquering David was 
welcomed by a bright chorus of women; that Deborah led 
the fainting hosts of Israel to victory, and so on through the 
convincing proofs that if Ardelias wish to write pindarics 
they should be given pen and ink. 



cxviii Introduction 



This sense of injustice, this self-doubt and unrest, are the 
fit background for Ardelia's one confessedly satirical poem, 
Ardelia's Answer to Ephelia. It is a clever piece of work, 
vigorous, racy, colloquial. The portraits of the London 
beau and belle show that in the beautiful and witty maid 
of honor there had lurked a "chiel" whose note-taking was 
minute, keen, and even contemptuous, Ardelia's Almeria 
is the London woman of fashion in 1690, but, by unmistaka- 
ble traits of family likeness, she betrays her kinship with 
heroines of a later date. She has not, to be sure, the 
bewildering fascination of Congreve's Millamant, nor the 
dazzling beauty of Pope's Belinda, but whatever in these 
ladies was vain, pert, flippant, and frivolous found its well- 
developed prototype in Almeria. She was not a whit behind 
Belinda, in devotion to flounces, furbelows, and feathered 
gowns, and in the ecstacy with which she regarded her 
toilet-table, and she excelled Addison's Leonora in her 
energetic pursuit of gewgaws and rare china. She had, 
furthermore, what these other fair dames had not, a carping, 
envious spirit, an eye keen to see all failings but her own, a 
tongue fluent in evil-minded gossip. Lady Winchilsea does 
not regard female foibles with amused tolerance. The 
severity of the portrait she draws does not belie her feeling. 
To her the Almerias of life were utterly distasteful, an insult 
to all true womanhood, and not to be laughed at, but 
scourged. 

There are other slight pictures of women much in the 
spirit of this portrait of Almeria. A Pastoral Dialogue, 
presents two ladies, one young, vain, eager in pursuit of 
masculine admiration, the other old, vain, jealous, eager to 
recount past triumphs. The sketches of the artful coquette 
and the im[)crious wife in The Spleen read like studies for 
the Rape of the Lock, and Adam Pos^d would surely do as 
a text for Pope's " Most women have no characters at all." 



Introduction cxix 



The picture of the belles at Tunbridge in 1706 is o£ the 
most sarcastic sort. The blas^ indifference of the men, and 
the too willing, too grateful reception of slight masculine 
attentions on the part of the maidens aroused Lady Win- 
chilsea's indignation. The pert, shallow, forward hoydens 
of the fashionable watering-place were even more obnoxious 
to her than the trifling fops whose admiration they were 
courting. Especially open to Ardelia's scorn is the wife of 
the rich parvenu, who, without birth or breeding, displays 
her husband's wealth by wearing more gold and lace than a 
duchess. In her rooms, which are "drest anew at every 
Christ'ning," 

Grinning Malottos in true Ermin stare, 

The best Japan, and clearest China-ware 

Are but as common Delft and English Laquer there. 

Such is the contemptuous triplet with which Ardelia dis- 
misses this lady's pretension to gentility. The foolish old 
owl in the fable is a playful but searching portrayal of 
many a doating mother. The wrangling woman with the 
" eternal clack " in Reformation is the typical vulgar scold 
and busy-body. And so on through the slight portraits 
which show that Ardelia, howsoever "gentle," had yet a keen 
eye and quick word for all that fell below her standards. 

A second general topic never touched upon without 
severity is the mobile. Lady Winchilsea was an aristocrat 
and a royalist. She always deprecates an appeal to the 
public. " How can we," she exclaims, 

with their opinions join. 
Who to promote some interest would define, 
The People's Voice to be the Voice Divine. 

She pities the man of sense who must be judged by a 
" Crowd of Fools." "The Vulgar Throng," she says, must 
not be cajoled or reasoned with, but governed "by stated 
laws." L'Estrange searched through the beast- world for 



cxx Introduction 



similitudes expressive of his detestation of the mob. They 
are asses, and asses they will be, no matter who rides them ; 
they are "mungril curs" that bawl, snarl, and snap; they 
are " hares that wish to secure universal parity by leveling 
all beasts to their own state of weakness," and so on. With 
less boldness and less contempt, Lady Winchilsea is entirely 
in accord with Sir Roger's views. 

"Pocket-Arguments" likewise quickly irritated Ardelia. 
The man who grants 

no worth in anything 
But so much money as 'twill bring, 

the man whose interests are in the price of corn and stand- 
ing market laws, are outside the pale of her sympathies. 
Marriage based on considerations of dowry or jointure is 
offensive to her. In her judgment an impecunious scholar 
always outranks the successful business man or even the 
successful professional man. The best illustration of this 
attitude is the poem to Dr. Waldron, who had given up a 
fellowship at Oxford that he might make a better income 
through the practice of medicine. Ardelia admits that 
money, that sordid plant, does not flourish near the odor of 
the bays, but she cannot understand how any hope of gain 
could induce a wit to leave Oxford, " that Eden to the Fruit- 
ful Mind." Dr. Waldron's accomplishments did not extend 
apparently beyond gay discourse, witty extempore effusions 
in verse or prose for table-books, and an occasional poem in 
some Miscellany, but even this dilettante consorting with the 
muses was superior to "druggery," even though druggery 
led to "glittering profit." Ardelia's satiric list is really a 
long one and comprises "rallying wits," "greedy parasites," 
flatterers when they " fawn and leer," knavish lawyers, travel- 
ing fops, and such social bores as buffoons, "mimmicks," 
" quoters of old saws," and retailers of second-hand jokes. Her 
antipathies were lively and her insight acute, yet her satire 



Introduction cxxi 



was seldom personal, and seldom really acrimonious. Much 
of it is in the fables and even those with the most caustic 
morals are often marked in the narrative portions by a 
gayety, a humorous lightness of touch, and a tolerance far 
enough removed from a genuinely pessimistic view of human 
nature. 

The satiric poems are enlivened by many realistic details 
of value to the student of social life in the years from 1680 
to 1714. Ardelia had almost as keen an eye for manners 
and customs, for personal idiosyncrasy, for trifling indica- 
tions of moral standards and motives, as she showed later in 
her treatment of external nature. 

That Lady Winchilsea, in her attitude toward external 
nature, was so far in advance of her age as to be isolated 
Attitude from it, is put beyond dispute by a detailed 

E^^r*^ 1 study of her poems. This forms, in fact, her 

Nature principal claim to the notice of posterity. 

Her preference for the country and her correspondingly 
strong dislike for the city find emphatic expression in 
Ardelki's Answer- to Ephelia, about 1690, and the Preface, 
about 1702. The "Almeria" of the first of these poems 
belongs to the true apostolic succession of poetical heroines 
who abhorred the country. Isabella in Dryden's Wild Gal- 
lant says, "I cannot abide to be in the country like a wild 
beast in the wilderness." Harriet in Etheredge's Man of 
Mode counted all beyond Hyde Park a desert, and she said 
that her love of the town was so intense that she hated the 
country even in tapestry and in pictures. Sylvia in Shad- 
well's Epsom Wells assures the boor, Clodpate, the apostle 
of "a pretty innocent country life," that people really live 
nowhere but in London, for the "insipid dull being" of 
country folk cannot be called living. The list could be 
increased indefinitely and goes far down into the eighteenth 
century. Pope's "fond virgin" whose unhappy fate com- 



cxxii Introduction 



pelled her to seek wholesome country air, Shenstone's lady 
who "could not breath anywhere else but in town," Little- 
ton's fair maiden to whom country life is "supinely calm 
and dully innocent," Young's Fulvia who preferred "smoke 
and dust and noise and crowds ". to " odious larks and night- 
ingales," Browne's Celia who makes her banishment from 
the city endurable by not giving herself up to " dull land- 
scape" but by thinking of the country as the "town in 
miniature" — these ladies represent in varying phases the 
traditions of their fathers, and Almeria is legitimately of 
their kin. She secretly ridicules Ardelia's "rural tastes" 
and "rustic" clothes, and wonders how anyone can leave 
"the beaux-monde and the dull country love," yet, "if but 
an afternoon 'twould cost," she really could bring herself to 
visit Ardelia in the country, " to quit the town, and for that 
Time be lost." The attitude of these ladies toward the coun- 
try was but the attitude of their time. Ardelia's feeling 
toward city and country becomes, then, novel in the extreme. 
In the midst of all the social delights Almeria can offer her, 
she longs for her "groves and country walks" where "trees 
blast not trees nor flow'rs envenom flow'rs," and she returns 
to Eastwell with a haste and pleasure hardly to be under- 
stood by her contemporaries. The antithesis between the 
town and the country was not so sharply defined by any 
succeeding poet before Cowper. 

The importance of Lady Winchilsea's contributions to 
the poetry of external nature depends not so much on the 
The Mountains number as upon the characteristics of the 
and the Sea poems that have to do with the out-door world. 
In some respects these characteristics are like those of her 
contemporaries. The mountains and the sea, for instance, 
are treated by her in conventional fashion. She uses the 
sea in similitudes where storms rage and where tides swal- 
low up brooks, much in the manner of Dryden and Waller. 



Introduction cxxiii 



There are no good descriptions except, possibly, this line on 
the ocean in a calm, 

For smooth it lay as if one wave made all the sea. 

The treatment of mountains is equally inefiPective. In 
her Hymn she does, however, address mountains as "Ye 
native altars of the Earth," a phrase which in the midst of 
utilitarian and theological objections to mountains as " huge, 
monstrous excrescences of nature," as mere "barriers between 
one sweet plain and another," as "wild, vast, undigested 
heaps of stone and earth," "great ruins, the result of sin," 
has a strangely exalted and Hebraic sound. 

Dryden and his followers used storm similes with weari- 
some frequency and monotony, but storms themselves were 
not counted poetical property till Thomson 
called attention to them in The Seasons, after 
which they became part of the stock in trade of every poet- 
aster who could make the elements crash and hurtle. Lady 
Winchilsea's one storm is her description of the hurricane 
that swept over England in November, 1703, devastating 
the southern counties, uprooting fine old trees, unroofing 
palaces, destroying a third of the navy, and causing the 
death of fifteen hundred seamen. Eastwell was within the 
storm radius, and the poem is doubtless based on actual obser- 
vation. This poem was subjected to much revision in the 
manuscript, but even in the printed form it is still unequal 
and disjointed. It was written too near to the event. It is 
marred by much that is local, personal, temporary in inter- 
est. The best passages are descriptive of external nature 
pure and simple, the fierce and turbulent winds, the ruined 
trees, the storm-beaten birds. But one point calls for 
especial comment here, and that is the emphasis put on the 
sounds of the tempest. They are so appalling and tremen- 
dous as to " wound the listening sense." They have the effect 



cxxiv Introduction 



of a battle symphony. The winds beat against solid sur- 
faces with a drum-like resonance, they are their own fifes 
and clarions ; each cavity and hollow tube becomes a trumpet. 
Crude though the poem is, it now and then has in it some- 
thing of the stress and strain, something of the sweep of the 
storm itself. 

No object in inanimate nature attracted Lady Winchilsea 
more strongly than trees. A charming early poem is called 

simply The Tree. The kind of tree is not 
Tr6GS 

named, though it was probably an oak. But 

more important than botanic exactitude is the impression 
made by the regal personality of this tree with its imposing 
height and wide hospitable spread of branches. Destruction 
by the ax of the common workman would be degradation. 
Fierce winds alone are of a rank worthily to compass its 
fall. And the news of such an event should resound from 
the earth to the congregated clouds, while in the end con- 
suming flames would be but as the funeral pyre of ancient 
heroes. The poem has no "unforgettable lines," but the 
conception of the patriarchal tree is not paralleled in kind 
before Christopher Smart's oak-tree in the Immensity of the 
Supreme Being. 

In later poems this interest in trees is a frequent note. 
Ardelia's petition for an absolute retreat, 

Mongst Paths so lost and Trees so high. 
That the world may ne'er invade 
Through such windings and such shade, 
My unshaken Liberty, 

was practically answered at Eastwell. During her first 
summer there she was so enthusiastic in her pleasure that 
she was constantly overtaxing her strength by long walks 
through the forest-like park. Its solitude and beauty gave 
her inexplicable joy. Her released romantic tendencies 
found suddenly most happy activity. The silent forest 



Introduction cxxv 



became the home of legend and myth, a realm of Spenserian 
enchantment. For hours at a time she wandered about 
alone, peopling the shades with fawns and sylvans, convert- 
ing lovely nooks into the secret haunts of nymphs and 
fairies. Toward individual trees or groups of trees her 
feeling is almost as intimate as that of Lowell. She addresses 
them as " numerous brethren of the leafy kind," she applies 
the adjective "fraternal" to a clump of oaks in quite the 
manner of Wordsworth in his description of the yew-trees, 
the " fraternal four of Borrowdale." In recounting the results 
of the great storm, the frustrated ambitions of the beech, 
the oak, and the pine are sympathetically recorded along 
with human fatalities. The destruction of a fine old grove 
at Eastwell is narrated with dramatic liveliness. The winds 
sigh through the sentenced trees. The household awaits in 
dismayed silence the catastrophe it cannot avert. Even the 
hired clowns refuse at first to lift the ax. But when to 
his word of command the master adds his example by 
striking the first blow, all follow suit, and presently the 
splendid trees lie helpless in the field of their birth. This 
disaster occurred before Ardelia went to Eastwell, but she 
commemorates it with a sense of personal hurt and outrage, 
and one of her reasons for gratitude to Charles was that he 
replanted the denuded field. 

Lady Winchilsea frequently "moralized" her trees, but 
on the way to the moral we find much excellent description, 
the outcome of first-hand observation. Willows, for instance, 
stand for youth, but we discover likewise that they are 
smooth of rind, straight of bough, moist of fiber, that they 
throw out at the top a mass of leaves, that they gather in 
social ranks along little streams. One forgets the moral of 
the dead tree in the hedge, in looking at the picture of the 
tree itself. Mischievous, entangling vines encompass it. 
Dismal-flowered night-shade, and "honesty" with its feath- 



cxxvi Introduction 



erd down curl from the topmost bough, while the honey- 
suckle climbs by its dead branches to the thorn-trees above. 
The oak is used as a symbol for age, but it is not the pathos 
of man's declining years that stays in the memory; it is 
rather the pathetic dignity of that "lonely stubborn oak" 

whose 

distorted trunk 
Sapless branches bent and shrunk, 

show the force of the imperious whirl-winds it has defied. 

Lady Winchilsea's poems show a delight in flowers, but 

not at all the conventional delight. Her chief pleasure in 

flowers arose from their odor. That her olfac- 

Flowers ^ • p -, 

tory sense was especially acute may be interred 

from the description of the physical effect of some penetrat- 
ing odors, as that of the jonquil. She faints beneath 
the "aromatic pain." And she is as pronounced as 
Cowper in her protest against the perfume so lavishly 
used by the beaux and belles of London. But of the gener- 
ally diffused fragrances wafted from gardens or fields she 
speaks frequently and with great pleasure. In the descrip- 
tions of the wilderness at Longleat, the entire stress was 
put on the ravishing odors from woodbine, jasmine, Hes- 
perian broom, and the Assyrian rose, which were so cun- 
ningly arranged that only by detecting their separate odors 
could one find his way through the maze. She observes, 
also, that odors are more powerful on hot days, especially 
"piny" odors, and in the evening. The colors of flowers 
did not so strongly attract her. Most of her color words 
have to do with textures and gems. But even in colors she 
is much richer than most of her contemporaries who describe 
flowers. One of her most interesting notes is a defense of 
the common white lily against the opinion of commentators 
who think "that flower not gay enough" to stand in the 
famous comparison of Solomon's attire to the lilies. But no 



Introduction cxxvii 



flower, she contends, "can have a greater luster than the 
common white lily." 

On the whole. Lady Winchilsea's references to flowers 
are original, suggestive, and pleasing. The glowing poppy, 
the bright blue flowers among the standing corn, the 
bramble-rose on the banks of the stream, the sleepy cowslip 
in a sheltered nook, the foxgloves that at eventide checker 
the brakes with pale red, are not flowers indigenous to early 
eighteenth century poetry. In novelty of choice, in aptness 
of phrase, and in directness and simplicity of effect, these 
little flower pictures are of unique value in the poetry of 
their day. 

The use of birds in Lady Winchilsea's poetry is slight, 
but of real significance. There is one sympathetically drawn 
picture of a bird by chance imprisoned in a 
room. In its fright it dashes itself against the 
ceiling, beats with its wings on the window-panes, or flutters 
about in "endless circles of dismay," till some kind hand 
restores it to "ample space, the only heaven of birds." 
Equally direct and sympathetic is the description of the 
birds in the great storm. The picture of the "wide free 
sky," "where none from star to star could call the space his 
own," the "unentailed estate of birds," renders more effect- 
ive the accompanying picture of the birds bewildered by the 
storm, beaten to earth by rough blasts, or tossed about by 
the whirlwind. 

Lady Winchilsea's owl in the fable is by no means a 
mere reproduction of La Fontaine's. She amplifies his brief 
generalized description into many homely details. The 
curiously shaped beak, the high shoulders, the ruff around 
the neck, the frowsy lids, the waddling steps, the dull eye 
under its greenish film, are details that in the poetry of the 
day certainly mark an unusual attempt at minute, realistic 
portrayal of a bird. She speaks of an "ancient yew" that 



cxxviii Introduction 



has for three hundred years belonged to "lineal Heirs" 
of the owl tribe, and one of the pleasing night-sounds that 
she records is the clear "hollowing" of the owl from a tree 
'famed for her delight." All of this bears the mark of 
first-hand and interested observation, as do likewise the two 
descriptions which the young rat and his dam give of the 
cock, in the fable The young Rat and his Dam, the Cock 
and the Cat. In Jealousy the Rage of a Man there is a 
delightfully fresh and vivid description of the courtship of 
two doves. The male bird puts on his most enticing airs 
while the female carelessly shifts her ground and indifferently 
pecks away at the scattered grain, but on the appearance of 
a rival her seeming coldness disappears, her feathers become 
sleek as she prepares for a fight, and in a rage she attacks 
the parti-colored neck of the new favorite. The dove had 
been long poetically relied upon as an image of cooing, con- 
jugal content, hence this picture of a jealous, fighting dove 



is as original as it is effective. The observation in the little 
poem is strikingly exact. Wordsworth himself could not 
find fault with it. 

The nightingale is immemorially the poet's bird. English 
verse has never failed to give enthusiastic, if somewhat 
monotonous, recognition of Philomela's claims. From Chau- 
cer, Spenser, Sidney, Lyly, Shakespeare, Carew, Crashaw, 
Milton, Marvell, even Dryden, Lady Winchilsea might have 
compiled an anthology of nightingale poetry. From these 
poets the characteristics of the traditional nightingale are 
easily deducible, and it is interesting to discover in how far 
Lady Winchilsea's poem The Nightingale is in accord with 
the work of her predecessors. She is almost the only poet 
in the list to give no note of the time of the song, but she is 
at one with Lyly and Milton in mentioning spring as its 
season. Her nightingale apparently sang in May. The 
sweetness of the song is, of course, generally observed, but 



Introduction cxxix 



Lady Winchilsea is curiously like Carew and Crashaw in 
her attempt to give a more exact description of its musical 
quality. As she listens to the long, pure notes, the ecstasy 
of pleasure becomes almost a pain, and she implores the bird 
to "let division shake her throat," — a seventeenth century 
phrase for the production of runs and trills. Carew speaks 
of the bird's ''sweet dividing throat," and Crashaw says that 

she pours 

through the sleek passage of her open throat 
A clear un wrinkled song; then doth she point it by short diminu- 
tions. * 

What Mathew Arnold calls the "wild, deep-sunken, old- 
world pain" of the song seldom escapes the ear or the clas- 
sically trained memory of the poet. The early concrete 
embodiment of this grief, a bird singing with a thorn "uptill 
her breast," as given by Sir Philip Sidney, and several times 
by Shakespeare, is followed by Lady Winchilsea. The new 
point in Lady Winchilsea's poem is her way of listening to 
the song. The traditional interpretation of the "thorn" had 
always been some love-longing, but to her it is the poet's 
despair in the presence of a musical perfection to which he 
cannot attain. In a faint, but sweet and real way, Lady 
Winchilsea's emotional experience in listening to the night- 
ingale was like that of Shelley with the sky-lark. She traces 
the song from point to point, she listens with rapture, and 
has a consciousness that such strains, " taught by the for- 
ests," are beyond human skill. In none of the earlier night- 
ingale poems does the human emotion arise thus out of the 
song. The general plan is to use the song to illustrate, to 
augment, or to assuage some human emotion. But Lady 
Winchilsea's experience wherein the song, heard first for its 
own sake, creates the emotion and suggests the human anal- 
ogy, is exactly like that of Shelley with the sky-lark, Words- 
worth with the daffodils, and Burns with the mouse or the 
daisy. 



cxxx Introduction 



The song of the bird in Eastwell Park seems, it must be 
confessed, tame, circumscribed, even thin, when compared 
with the rich, voluptuous, soul-enthralling notes of the 
nightingale that a century and a quarter later sang in the 
garden in Hampstead Heath and moved the poet Keats to 
thoughts of easeful death. But when considered in connec- 
tion with its predecessors, and especially its contemporaries, 
Lady Winchilsea's poem becomes a remarkable production. 

Of other animals than birds little is said except in the 
fables. Their first duty there is loyalty to the moral, and 
they are only secondarily independent animals, but they are 
often touched off with a sly, gay humor that makes some of 
them interesting even apart from the fable. 

The traditional lover who flees to the shades to hide his 

mortal wound, who sees nothing in nature but rocks and 

thorns and other painful reminders of Sylvia's 

Man and Nature ,, i i -i p -n j 

cruelty, and who, therefore, with rare good 

sense, goes back to the city, preferring to die by realities 

rather than by shadows, is described in By Love Persu'd. 

And in Aristomenes are examples of the subordination of 

nature to man, as when Climander hears Herminia utter the 

word "love" and exclaims: 

Oh ! speak it once again, and the fond Vine 
Shall with a stricter grasp embrace the Elm, 
Whilst joyful birds shall hail it from the Branches. 

This reads like a reminiscence of Tasso's Aminta, and is 
an unusual note in Lady Winchilsea's poetry. Even in the 
description of Marina the lover said that she seemed to give 
all the sweetness to nature, not that she did give it, and the 
lament of Aristomenes for his son distinctly recognizes the 
independence of Nature. It is especially in elegiac verse 
that Lady Winchilsea's conception of the relation between 
man and nature is shown to be widely different from the 
ideas then dominant. In the customary elegy. Nature is 



Introduction cxxxi 



represented as "convulsed with grief" at the death of the 
ilhistrious human being. The rivulets are flooded with tears 
of the water-gods, brows of hills are furrowed by new 
streams, the heavens weep, birds droop, lilies hang their 
heads. Dr. Johnson characterizes such passages as " sylla- 
bles of senseless dolour." Their grotesque extravagance 
and unreality become even more apparent when they are put 
side by side with the direct recognition of the truth, the 
daring, almost painful frankness in such lines as those in 
which Wordsworth declares the indifference of Nature to the 
death of sweet Lucy, whose body is 

Rolled round in Earth's diurnal course, 
With rocks and stones and trees. 

The transition from the artificial subordination of nature 
to man, to the conception of nature as a vital and separate 
entity, was the slow process of a century. Lady Winchil- 
sea's place in this historical sequence becomes then of 
especial significance, when we find in her poems not only 
a forecast of the modern thought, but a protest against 
the conventional idea. In an elegy commemorative of her 
relative. Sir William Twysden, she says she rejects the custom- 
ary invocation to flocks and fields and flowers to join her in 
her grief because to her mind it is false and but a poet's dream 
that eternal nature is moved by man's sorrow. She is con- 
scious that no human woe can deprive the spring of joy in 
her fragrant odors and purple violets. It is in vain that 
mourners attempt to force on inanimate things some portion 
of their grief. Nature, unconcerned for our sorrows, " per- 
sues her settled path, her first and steady course." That all 
may seem to die with the death of a friend is, she admits, 
true, but she insists, with the emphasis of Coleridge in the 
Ode to Dejection, that the clouds darkening over the outer 
world proceed only from the sad, awakened heart. 



cxxxii Introduction 



In an early poem, The Echo, Lady Winchilsea expressed 

a quite romantic pleasure in a walk taken on a fair night to 

hear a certain famous echo, but in the actual 

^^ experience it was not so much the mechanical 

perfection of the sound that pleased her, as it was its remote, 

elemental suggestiveness when associated with the loneliness 

and beauty of the night. In Democritus one line, 

Solitary walks on starry nights, 

seems to have a personal touch as if she had known such 

walks. The Hymn strikes a somewhat deeper note in its 

address to the moon as the gentle guide of 

Silent night, 
That does to solemn Praise and serious thoughts invite. 

Brief though these references are, each one has a quality of 
originality. But they hardly even foreshadow the perfection 
of the Nocturnal Reverie. The fullness and delicate accuracy 
of the observation in this poem have already been sufficiently 
commented on. The description is doubtless the outcome of 
many a fair summer night at Eastwell, but the picturesque 
details are unified into a consistent whole, so that they give 
the impression of a single vivid experience. The style is 
simple, straightforward, unelaborated, almost bare. There 
is nothing traditional or bookish. There is no ecstacy, no 
emphatic statement. But in some indefinable, inevitable 
fashion the little poem is suffused with the charm of the 
lovely night. And not only the charm of the night, but its 
significance, its message, its gift to man, find adequate 
expression. The eight lines beginning, ' ' When a sedate 
content the spirit feels," present an interpretation of the 
effect of nature on the heart and mind of man so exactly 
Wordsworthian in substance and mood that it is hard to date 
it eighty-five years before the Lyrical Ballads. Words- 
worth's strong interest in Lady Winchilsea is justified by the 
law of affinities. She is like him in that her genius needs 



Introduction cxxxiii 



no strong or novel stimulus, and in this one poem, at least, 
she has attained to his " wise passiveness," his power of fixing 
an exquisite regard on the commonest facts of nature, and 
his ability to state these facts with fine precision, and to 
interpret them, not allegorically, but actually in their rela- 
tion to human life. 

In a faint but not at all fanciful way, Lady Winchilsea's 
poetical development is also comparable to that of Words- 
worth. Most of the men who wrote well of nature in the 
eighteenth century, as Armstrong, Dyer, Thomson, Ram- 
say, Mickle, Bruce, Beattie, spent their youth in the country; 
their poetry of nature was their earliest work and was remi- 
niscent of their country life ; and the large body of their 
later work was didactic or dramatic. In other words they 
wrote their poetry of nature, before, not after, they had come 
into close contact with the complex and strenuous life of the 
city. Lady Winchilsea's experience was exactly the reverse. 
She first knew the court and the city ; she first knew the 
tragic realities of life, and she first wrote dramas and satires 
and odes ; and then at fifty years of age she wrote the 
Reverie. She was, in her spiritual history, like Wordsworth 
in that her chief poems on nature were not written in the 
flush and fervor of youth. Personal deprivations, frus- 
trated ambitions, loss of faith in man, doubts of the provi- 
dential ordering of human affairs, were the deep waters 
through which she was called to pass, and the end of the 
bitter experience found her in a state of dejection border- 
ing on despair, a condition similar in kind though not in 
degree to Wordsworth's condition at the close of the experi- 
ences connected with the French revolution. The influences 
that led to healing in each case were human affection and 
the beauty and order of the external world. To her hus- 
band and to Eastwell Park Lady Winchilsea owed her resto- 
ration to her birtright of serenity and joy. But the process 



cxxxiv Introduction 



was not an instantaneous one. It took time for the delicate 
originality of her taste to assert itself. And she had not, 
as had Wordsworth, a fund of childhood impressions on 
which to draw. It was only after long and familiar contact 
with nature that its full effect was apparent. But yet, sea- 
son by season, year by year, new lessons were being learned, 
and insensibly nature was bringing to her its normal gifts. 
It is not of the sweet surprises, the novel excitements of the 
early life at Eastwell of which she writes best. The ade- 
quate poem comes only after years of accumulated experi- 
ence, when the loveliness of the place is known and taken for 
granted, when love for it is a part of herself, when the thought 
of it has mellowed and ripened. In spite of many impor- 
tant differences that might be insisted on, there is this one 
important point of likeness between Lady Winchilsea and 
Wordsworth — they both write out of the calm that follows 
the storm. Their simplicity and repose grow out of the fact 
that so much of life has been tested and set aside, and that 
the essentials of happy living have been found to be few and 
not difl&cult of access. In her youth Ardelia wrote an 
Enquiry after Peace. It is a brief version of the world-old 
vanitas vafiitatum, very much in the style of Parnell's Hymn, 
and there is a suggestion, reminding one inevitably of Dyer's 
Grongar Hill, that peace may be found on some mountain- 
top under the wide arch of the sky, or in some shut-away 
valley. This plaintive little poem is only a fragment, but it 
is beautifully rounded out and answered by the Reverie. The 
two poems represent the extremes of the portion of Lady 
Winchilsea's life best known to us — its early dissatisfactions, 
questionings, rejections, its final certainties and poise. 



POEMS 



MEKCURY AND THE ELEPHANT 

A Prefatory Fable 

As Merc'ry travell'd thro' a Wood 
(Whose Errands are more Fleet than Good) 
An Elephant before him lay, 
That much encumbered had the Way: 
The Messenger, who's still in haste, 
Wou'd fain have bow'd, and so have past; 
When up arose th' unweildy Brute, 
And wou'd repeat a late Dispute, 
In which (he said) he'd gain'd the Prize 
From a wild Boar of monstrous Size: 10 

But Fame (quoth he) with all her Tongues, 
Who Lawyers, Ladies, Soldiers wrongs. 
Has, to my Disadvantage, told 
An Action throughly Bright and Bold; 
Has said, that I foul Play had us'd. 
And with my Weight th' Opposer bruis'd ; 
Had laid my Trunk about his Brawn, 
Before his Tushes cou'd be drawn; 
Had stunn'd him with a hideous Roar, 
And twenty-thousand Scandals more: 20 

But I defy the Talk of Men, 
Or Voice of Brutes in ev'ry Den; 
Th' impartial Skies are all my Care, 
And how it stands Recorded there. 
Amongst you Gods, pray. What is thought? 
Quoth Merciwy — Then have you Fought! 
Solicitous thus shou'd I be 
For what's said of my Verse and Me; 
Or shou'd my Friends Excuses frame, 
3 



The Poems of Anne 



And beg the Criticks not to blame 30 

(Since from a Female Hand it came) 
Defects in Judgment, or in Wit ; 
They'd but reply — Then has she Writ! 

Our Vanity we more betray, 

In asking what the World will say, 

Than if, in trivial Things like these, 

We wait on the Event with ease; 

Nor make long Prefaces, to show 

What Men are not concern'd to know: 

For still untouch'd how we succeed, 40 

'Tis for themselves, not us, they Read; 

Whilst that proceeding to requite. 

We own (who in the Muse delight) 
'Tis for our Selves, not them, we Write. 

Betray'd by Solitude to try 

Amusements, which the Prosp'rous fly; 

And only to the Press repair. 

To fix our scatter' d Papers there; 

Tho' whilst our Labours are preserv'd. 

The Printers may, indeed, be starv'd. 50 

THE INTRODUCTION 

Did I, my lines intend for publick view, 

How many censures, wou'd their faults persue, 

Some wou'd, because such words they do affect, 

Cry they're insipid, empty, uncorrect. 

And many, have attain'd, dull and untaught 

The name of Witt, only by finding fault. 

True judges, might condemn their want of witt, 

And all might say, they're by a Woman writt. 

Alas! a woman that attempts the pen, 

Such an intruder on the rights of men, 10 



Countess of Winchilsea 



Such a presumptuous Creature, is esteem'd, 

The fault, can by no vertue be redeem'd. 

They tell us, we mistake our sex and way; 

Good breeding, fassion, dancing, dressing, play 

Are the accomplishments we shou'd desire; 

To write, or read, or think, or to enquire 

Wou'd cloud our beauty, and exaust our time, 

And interrupt the Conquests of our prime; 

Whilst the dull mannage, of a servile house 

Is held by some, our outmost art, and use. 20 

Sure 'twas not ever thus, nor are we told 
Fables, of Women that excell'd of old ; 
To whom, by the diffusive hand of Heaven 
Some share of witt, and poetry was given. 
On that glad day, on which the Ark return' d, 
The holy pledge, for which the Land had mourn'd, 
The joyfull Tribes, attend itt on the way, 
The Levites do the sacred Charge convey. 
Whilst various Instruments, before itt play ; 
Here, holy Virgins in the Concert joyn, 30 

The louder notes, to soften, and refine, 
And with alternate verse, compleat the Hymn Devine. 
Loe! the yong Poet, after Gods own heart, 
By Him inspired, and taught the Muses Art, 
Return'd from Conquest, a bright Chorus meets. 
That sing his slayn ten thousand in the streets. 
In such loud numbers they his acts declare, 
Proclaim the wonders, of his early war. 
That Saul upon the vast applause does frown, 
And feels, itts mighty thunder shake the Crown. 40 
What, can the threat' n'd Judgment now prolong? 
Half of the Kingdom is already gone; 
The fairest half, whose influence guides the rest. 
Have David's Empire, o're their hearts confess't. 



The Poems of Anne 



A Woman here, leads fainting Israel on, 
She fights, she wins, she tryumphs with a song, 
Devout, Majestick, for the subject fitt, 
And far above her arms, exalts her witt, 
Then, to the peacefull, shady Palm withdraws, 
And rules the rescu'd Nation, with her Laws. 50 

How are we fal'n, fal'n by mistaken rules? 
And Education's, more then Nature's fools, 
Debarr'd from all improve-ments of the mind, 
And to be dull, expected and dessigned; 
And if some one, wou'd Soar above the rest, 
With warmer fancy, and ambition press' t. 
So strong, th' opposing faction still appears, 
The hopes to thrive, can ne're outweigh the fears. 
Be caution'd then my Muse, and still retir d ; 
Nor be dispis'd, aiming to be admir'd; 60 

Conscious of wants, still with contracted wing, 
To some few freinds, and to thy sorrows sing; 
For groves of Lawrell, thou wert never meant ; 
Be dark enough thy shades, and be thou there content. 

THE PREFACE 

Beaumont in the beginni[n]g of a Coppy of Verses to 
his froind Fletcher (upon the ill successe of his FaithfuU 
Shepheardesse) tells him, 

I know too well! that no more, then the man 
That travells throo' the burning Deserts, can 
When he is beaten with the raging Sun, 
Half smother'd in the dust, have power to run 
From a cool River, which himself doth find, 
E're he be slack'd; no more can he, whose mind 
Joys in the Muses, hold from that delight, 
When Nature, and his full thoughts, bid him write. 



Countess of Winchilsea 



And this indeed, I not only find true by my own experience, 
but have also too many wittnesses of itt against me, under 
my own hand in the following Poems; which tho' never 
meritting more then to be once read, and then carlessly 
scatter'd or consum'd; are grown by the partiality of some 
of my freinds, to the formidable appearance of a Volume ; 
tho' but in Manuscript, and have been solicited to a more 
daring manefestation, which I shall ever resist, both from 
the knowledge of their incapassity, of bearing a publick 
tryal; and also, upon recalling to my memory, some of the 
first lines I ever writt, which were part of an invocation of 
Apollo, whose wise and limitted answer to me, I did there 
suppose to be 

I grant thee no pretence to Bays, 
Nor in bold print do thou appear ; 

Nor shalt thou reatch Orinda's prayse, 
Tho' all thy aim, be fixt on Her. 

And tho' I have still avoided the confident producing any- 
thing of mine in thatt manner, yett have I come too neer itt, 
and been like those imperfect penitents, who are ever relent- 
ing, and yett ever returning to the same offences. For I 
have writt, and expos'd my uncorrect Rimes, and immediatly 
repented ; and yett have writt again, and again suffer'd them 
to be seen; tho' att the expence of more uneasy reflections, 
till at last (like them) wearied with uncertainty, and irreso- 
lution, I rather chuse to be harden'd in an errour, then to be 
still att the trouble of endeavering to over come itt : and now, 
neither deny myself the pleasure of writing, or any longer 
make a mistery of that to my freinds and acquaintance, 
which does so little deserve itt; tho' itt is still a great satis- 
faction to me, that I was not so far abandon'd by my pru- 
dence, as out of a mistaken vanity, to lett any attempts of 
mine in Poetry, shew themselves whilst I liv'd in such a 
publick place as the Court, where every one wou'd have 



8 The Poems of Anne 

made their remarks upon a Versifying Maid of Honour ; and 
far the greater number with prejudice, if not contempt. And 
indeed, the apprehension of this, had so much wean'd me 
from the practice and inclination to itt ; that had nott an 
utter change in my Condition, and Circumstances, remov'd 
me into the solitude, & security of the Country, and the 
generous kindnesse of one that possest the most delightfull 
seat in itt; envited him, from whom I was inseperable, to 
partake of the pleasures of itt, I think I might have stopp'd 
ere it was too late, and suffer'd those few compositions I had 
then by me, to have sunk into that oblivion, which I ought 
to wish might be the lott of all that have succeeded them. 
But when I came to East well, and cou'd fix my eyes only 
upon objects naturally inspiring soft and Poeticall immagi- 
nations, and found the Owner of itt, so indulgent to that Art, 
so knowing in all the rules of itt, and att his pleasure, so 
capable of putting them in practice ; and also most obligingly 
favorable to some lines of mine, that had fall'n under his 
Lordship's perusal, I cou'd no longer keep within the lim- 
mitts I had prescrib'd myself, nor be wisely reserv'd, in spite 
of inclination, and such powerfuU temptations to the contrary. 
Again I engage my self in the service of the Muses, as 
eagerly as if 

From their new Worlds, I know not where, 
Their golden Indies in the air — 

they cou'd have supply'd the material losses, which I had 
lately sustain'd in this. And now, whenever I contemplate 
all the several beautys of this Park, allow'd to be (if not of 
the Universal yett) of our British World inifinitely the finest, 

A pleasing wonder throo' my fancy moves. 
Smooth as her lawnes, and lofty as her Groves. 
Boundlesse my Genius seems, when my free sight, 
Finds only distant skys to stop her flight. 



Countess of Winchilsea 9 

Like mighty Denhams, then, methinks my hand, 
Might bid the Landskip, in strong numbers stand. 
Fix all itts charms, with a Poetick skill, 
And raise itts Fame, above his Cooper's hill. 

This, I confesse, is whatt in itts self itt deserves, but the 
unhappy difference is, that he by being a real Poet, cou'd 
make that place (as he sais) a Parnassus to him ; whilst I, 
that behold a real Parnassus here, in that lovely Hill, which 
in this Park bears that name, find in my self, so little of the 
Poet, that I am still restrain'd from attempting a description 
of itt in verse, tho' the agreeablenesse of the subject, has 
often prompted me most strongly to itt. 

But now, having pleaded an irresistable impulse, as my 
excuse for writing, which was the cheif design of this 
Preface, I must also expresse my hopes of excaping all sus- 
pition of vanity, or affectation of applause from itt ; since I 
have in my introduction, deliver' d my sincere opinion that 
when a Woman meddles with things of this nature. 
So strong, th' opposing faction still appears. 
The hopes to thrive, can ne're outweigh the fears. 

And, I am besides sensible, that Poetry has been of late so 
explain'd, the laws of itt being putt into familiar languages, 
that even those of my sex, (if they will be so presumptuous 
as to write) are very accountable for their transgressions 
against them. For what rule of Aristotle, or Horace is 
there, that has not been given us by Rapin, Despreaux, 
D'acier, my Lord Roscomon, etc. ? What has Mr. Dryden 
omitted, that may lay open the very misteries of this Art ? 
and can there any where be found a more delightsome, or 
more usefull piece of Poetry, then that, 

correct Essay, 
Which so repairs, our old Horatian way." 

If then, after the perusal of these, we fail, we cannott plead 



10 The Poems of Anne 

any want, but that of capacity, or care, in both of which I 
own myself so very defective, y* whenever any things of 
mine, escape a censure, I allways attribute itt, to the good 
nature or civility of the Reader ; and not to any meritt in the 
Poems, which I am satisfy'd are so very imperfect, and uncor- 
rect, that I shall not attempt their justifycation. 

For the subjects, I hope they are att least innofensive; 
tho' sometimes of Love; for keeping within those limmitts 
which I have observ'd, I know not why itt shou'd be more 
faulty, to treat of that passion, then of any other violent 
excursion, or transport of the mind. Tho' I must confesse, 
the great reservednesse of Mrs. Philips in this particular, 
and the prayses I have heard given her upon that account, 
together with my desire not to give scandal to the most 
severe, has often discourag'd me from making use of itt, and 
given me some regrett for what I had writt of that kind, and 
wholy prevented me from putting the Aminta of Tasso into 
English verse, from the verbal translation that I procured 
out of the Italian, after I had finish'd the first act extreamly 
to my satisfaction; and was convinc'd, that in the original, 
itt must be as soft and full of beautys, as ever anything of 
that nature was ; but there being nothing mixt with itt, of a 
serious morality, or usefullnesse, I sacrafis'd the pleasure I 
took in itt, to the more sollid reasonings of my own mind; 
and hope by so doing to have made an attonement, to my 
gravest readers, for the two short pieces of that Pastoral, 
taken from the French, the Songs, and other few lighter 
things, which yett remain in tho following sheotts. 

As to Lampoons, and all sorts of abusive verses, I ever so 
much detested, both the underhand dealing and unchari- 
tablenesse which accompanys them, that I never suffer'd my 
small talent, to be that way employ'd ; tho' the facility of 
doing itt, is too well known to many, who can but make two 
words rime; and there wants not some provocation often, 



Countess of Winchilsea 11 

either from one's own resentments, or those of others, to put 
such upon itt, as are any way capable of that mean sort of 
revenge. The only coppy of mine that tends towards this, 
is the letter to Ephelia, in answer to an invitation to the 
Town ; but, as that appears to have been long written, by the 
mention made of my Lord Roscommon, under the name of 
Piso, given to him first, in a Panegerick, of Mr. Wallers, 
before his Art of Poetry ; so I do declare, that att the time 
of composing itt, there was no particular person meant by 
any of the disadvantageous Caracters; and the whole inten- 
tion of itt, was in general to expose the Censorious humour, 
foppishnesse and coquetterie that then prevail'd. And I am so 
far from thinking there is any ill in this, that I wish itt of tener 
done, by such hands as might sufficiently ridicule, and wean 
us from those mistakes in our manners, and conversation. 

Plays, were translated by our most vertuous Orinda; and 
mine, tho' originals, I hope are not lesse reserv'd. The Queen 
of Cyprus, I once thought to have call'd the Triumphs of 
Love and Innocence ; and doubted not but the latter part of the 
Title, wou'd have been as aptly apply'd as the former. Aristo- 
menes is wholy Tragicall, and, if itt answer my intention, 
moral and inciting to Vertue. What they are as to the per- 
formance, I leave to the judgment of those who shall read 
them ; and if any one can find more faults then I think to be 
in y""; I am much mistaken. I will only add, that when 
they were composed, itt was far from my intention ever to 
own them, the first was for my own private satisfaction, only 
an Essay wheither I cou'd go throo' with such a peice of 
Poetry. The other, I was led to, by the strong impressions, 
which some wonderfull circumstances in the life of Aristo- 
menes, made upon my fancy ; and cheifly the sweetnesse of 
his temper, observable in itt, wrought upon me; for which 
reason tho' itt may be I did not so Poetically, I chose rather 
to represent him Good, then Great; and pitch'd upon such 



12 The Poems of Anne 

parts of the relation, and introduc'd such additional circum- 
stances of my own, as might most illustrate that, and shew 
him to be (as declared by the Oracle) the best of Men. I 
know not what efifect they will have upon others, but I must 
acknowledge, that the giving some interruption to those 
melancholy thoughts, which posesst me, not only for my 
own, but much more for the misfortunes of those to whom 
I owe all immaginable duty, and gratitude, was so great a 
benefitt; that I have reason to be satisfy'd with the under- 
taking, be the performance never so inconsiderable. And 
indeed, an absolute solitude (which often was my lott) under 
such dejection of mind, cou'd not have been supported, had 
I indulg'd myself (as was too natural to me) only in the 
contemplation of present and real afflictions, which I hope 
will plead my excuse, for turning them for releif, upon such 
as were immaginary, & relating to Persons no more in 
being. I had my end in the writing, and if they please not 
those who will take the pains to peruse them, itt will be a 
just accusation to my weaknesse, for letting them escape out 
of their concealment; but if attended with a better successe, 
the satisfaction any freind of mine, may take in them, will 
make me think my time past, not so unprofitably bestowed, 
as otherwise I might; and which I shall now endeavour to 
redeem, by applying myself to better employments, and 
when I do write to chuse, my subjects generally out of 
Devinity, or from moral and serious occasions; which made 
me place them last, as capable of addition; For when we 
have run throo' all the amusements of life, itt will be found, 
that there is but one thing necessary; and they only Wise, 
who chuse the better part. But since there must be also, 
some relaxation, some entertaining of the spiritts, 

Whilst Life by Fate is lent to me, 
Whilst here below, I stay, 
Religion, my sole businesse be, 
And Poetry, my play. 



Countess of Winchilsea 13 

THE APPOLOGY 

'Tis true I write and tell me by what Rule 
I am alone forbid to play the fool 
To follow through the Gr roves a wand' ring Muse 
And fain'd Idea's for my pleasures chuse 
Why shou'd it in my Pen be held a fault 
Whilst Mira paints her face, to paint a thought 
Whilst Lamia to the manly Bumper flys 
And borrow'd Spiritts sparkle in her Eyes 
Why shou'd itt be in me a thing so vain 
To heat with Poetry my colder Brain 
But I write ill and there-fore shou'd forbear 
Does Flavia cease now at her fortieth year 
In ev'ry Place to lett that face be seen 
Which all the Town rejected at fifteen 
Each Woman has her weaknesse; mind [sicl indeed 
Is still to write tho' hoplesse to succeed 
Nor to the Men is this so easy found 
Ev'n in most Works with which the Witts abound 

(So weak are all since our first breach with Heav'n) 
Ther's lesse to be Applauded then forgiven. 

FRAGMENT 

So here confin'd, and but to female Clay, 

Aedelia's Soul mistook the rightful Way: 

Whilst the soft Breeze of Pleasure's tempting Air 

Made her believe, Felicity was there ; 

And basking in the warmth of early Time, 

To vain Amusements dedicate her Prime. 

Ambition next allur'd her tow'ring Eye; 

For Paradice she heard was plac'd on high. 

Then thought, the Court with all its glorious Show 

Was sure above the rest, and Paradice below. 10 

There plac'd too soon the flaming Sword appear'd 

Remov'd those Pow'rs, whom justly she rever'd, 



14 The Poems of Anne 

Adher'd too in their Wreck, and in their Ruin shar'd. 

Now by the Wheels inevitable Round, 

With them thrown prostrate to the humble Ground, 

No more she takes (instructed by that Fall) 

For fix'd, or worth her thought, this rolling Ball: 

Tow'rds a more certain Station she aspires. 

Unshaken by Revolts, and owns no loss Desires. 

But all in vain are Pray'rs, extatick Thoughts, 20 

Recover' d Moments, and retracted Faults, 

Retirement, which the World Moroseness calls. 

Abandoned Pleasures in Monastick Walls: 

These, but at distance, towards that purpose tend, 

The lowly Means to an exalted End; 

Which He must perfect, who allots her Stay, 

And That, accomplish' d, will direct the way. 

Pity her restless Cares, and weary Strife, 

And point some Issue to escaping Life ; 

Which so dismiss' d, no Pen or Human Speech 30 

Th' ineffable Recess can ever teach: 

Th' Expanse, the Light, the Harmony, the Throng, 

The Bride's Attendance, and the Bridal Song, 

The numerous Mansions, and th' immortal Tree, 

No Eye, unpurg'd by Death, must ever see. 

Or Waves which through that wond'rous City roll. 

Rest then content, my too impatient Soul; 

Observe but here the easie Precepts given. 

Then wait with chearful hope, till Heaven be known in Heaven. 

ON MYSELFE 

Good Heav'n, I thank thee, since it was design'd 
I shou'd be fram'd, but of the weaker kinde, 
That yet, my Soul, is rescu'd from the Love 
Of all those Trifles, which their Passions move. 
Pleasures, and Praise, and Plenty haue with me 



Countess of Winchilsea 15 

But their just value. If allow'd they be, 

Freely, and thankfully as much I tast, 

As will not reason, or Religion wast. 

If they're deny'd, I on my selfe can Line, 

And slight those aids, unequal chance does give. 

When in the Sun, my wings can be display'd, 

And in retirement, I can bless the shade. 

ARDELIA TO MELANCHOLY 

At last, my old inveterate foe, 

No opposition shalt thou know. 

Since I by struggling, can obtain 

Nothing, but encrease of pain, 

I will att last, no more do soe, 

Tho' I confesse, I have apply'd 

Sweet mirth, and musick, and have try'd 

A thousand other arts beside, 

To drive thee from my darkened breast. 

Thou, who hast banish'd all my rest. 10 

But, though sometimes, a short repreive they gave, 

Unable they, and far too weak, to save; 

All arts to quell, did but augment thy force. 

As rivers check'd, break with a wilder course. 

Freindship, I to my heart have laid, 

Freindship, th' applauded sov'rain aid. 

And thought that charm so strong wou'd prove. 

As to compell thee, to remove; 

And to myself, I boasting said. 

Now I a conqu'rer sure shall be, 20 

The end of all my conflicts, see. 

And noble tryumph, wait on me; 

My dusky, sullen foe, will sure 

N'er this united charsfe endure. 



16 The Poems of Anne 

But leaning on this reed, ev'n whilst I spoke 
It peirc'd my hand, and into peices broke. 
Still, some new object, or new int'rest came 
And loos'd the bonds, and quite disolv'd the claim. 

These failing, I invok'd a Muse, 

And Poetry wou'd often use, 30 

To guard me from thy Tyrant pow'r; 

And to oppose thee ev'ry hour 

New troops of fancy's, did I chuse. 

Alas! in vain, for all agree 

To yeild me Captive up to thee. 

And heav'n, alone, can sett me free. 

Thou, through my life, wilt with me goe. 

And make y* passage, sad, and slow. 

All, that cou'd ere thy ill gott rule, invade, 

Their uselesse arms, before thy feet have laid ; 40 

The Fort is thine, now ruin'd, all within, 

Whilst by decays without, thy Conquest too, is seen, 

AN INVOCATION TO SLEEP 

How shall I wooe thee gentle rest, 
To a sad Mind, with cares opress'd? 
By what soft means, shall I invite 
Thy Pow'rs into my Soul to night? 
Yett, Gentle sleep, if thou wilt come. 
Such darknesse shall prepare the Room, 
As thy own Pallace ouerspreads, 
(Thy Pallace, stor'd with peacefuU Beds) 
And Silence too, shall on thee waite 
Deep, as in the Turkish State; 10 

Whilst, still as Death, I will be found, 
My arms, by one another bound; 
And my dull lidds, so clos'd shall be 



Countess of Winohilsea 17 

As if allready seal'd by thee. 

Thus, I'll dispose the outward part, 

Wou'd I cou'd quiet too my Heart. 

But, in its overburthen'd stead 

Behold I offer thee, my head; 

My head, I better can comand, 

And that, I bow beneath thy hand ; 20 

Nor do I think, that heretofore 

Our first great Father, gaue thee more, 

When, on a flow'ry bank, he lay, 

And did thy strictest Laws obey: 

For, to compose his lonely Bride, 

He yielded not alone his side, 

But, if we judge by the event. 

Half of his heart too, with itt went. 

Which, waken'd drew him soon away 

To Eve's fair bosome, where itt lay, 30 

Pleas'd to admitt his rightfull claim 

And tending, still, tow'rds whence itt came. 

Then, gentle sleep, expect from mee 

No more then I haue proffer'd thee; 

For, if thou wilt not hear my Pray'rs, 

Till I haue vanquish'd all my cares, 

Thou 'lit stay, 'till kinder Death supply s thy place. 

The surer Friend, tho' with the harsher face, 

THE LOSSE 

She sighd', but soon, itt mix'd with cornon air. 
Too fleet a witnesse, for her deep dispair; 
She wept, but tears, no lasting greif can show. 
For tears will fail, and ebb, as well as flow. 
She wou'd her tongue, to the sad subject force, 
But all great passions, are above discourse. 
Thy heart alone, Ardelia, with itt trust, 



18 The Poems of Anne 

There grave itt deep, alas! 'twill fall to dust, 

Vrania is no more, to me no more. 

All these combin'd, can n'er that losse deplore. 

THE CONSOLATION 

See, Phoebus breaking from the willing skies, 
See, how the soaring Lark, does with him rise, 
And through the air, is such a journy borne 
As if she never thought of a return. 
Now, to his noon, behold him proudly goe, 
And look with scorn, on all that's great below. 
A Monark he, and ruler of the day, 
A fav'rite She, that in his beams does play. 
Glorious, and high, but shall they ever bee, 
Glorious, and high, and fixt where now we see? 
No, both must fall, nor can their stations keep, 
She to the Earth, and he below the Deep, 
At night both fall, but the swift hand of time 
Renews the morning, and again they climb, 
Then lett no cloudy change, create my sorrow, 
I'll think 'tis night, and I may rise to-morrow. 

A SONG ON GREIFE 
Sett by Mr. Estwick 
Oh greif ! why hast thou so much pow'r. 

Why doc the ruling Fates decree 
No state shou'd e're without the[ej be. 

Why, doest thou Joys, and hopes devour, 
And cloath ev'n loue him self, in thy dark livery? 

Thou, and cold fear, thy close Allic, 

Do not alone on life attend. 
Butt following mortalls to their end, 

Do wrack the wretches, whilst they dye; 
And to eternal shades, too often, with them flye. 



Countess of Winchilsea 19 

To thee, great Monark, I submitt, 
Thy Sables, and thy Cypresse bring, 

I own thy Pow'r, I own thee King, 
Thy title, in my heart is writt, 

And 'till that breaks, I ne'r shall freedom gett. 

Forc'd smiles, thy rigour will allow. 
And whilst thy seat is in the soul. 
And there, all mirth thou doest controul, 
Thou can'st admitt to outward show, 
The smooth appearance, and disembl'd brow. 

ON AFF[L]ICTION 

Wellcome, what e're my tender flesh may say, 
Welcome affliction, to my reason, still ; 

Though hard, and ruged on that rock I lay 
A sure foundation, which if rais'd with skill. 
Shall compasse Babel's aim, and reach th' Almighty's hill. 

Wellcome the rod, that does adoption shew. 

The cup, whose wholsome dregs are giv'n me here; 

There is a day behind, if God be true, 

When all these Clouds shall passe, & heav'n be clear. 
When those whom most they shade, shall shine most glo- 
rious there. 

Affliction is the line, which every Saint 
Is measur'd by, his stature taken right; 

So much itt shrinks, as they repine or faint, 
But if their faith and Courage stand upright. 
By that is made the Crown, and the full robe of light. 

A LETTER TO DAFNIS APRIL : 2d 1685 

This to the Crown, and blessing of my life, 
The much lov'd husband, of a happy wife. 
To him, whose constant passion found the art 



•20 The Poems of Anne 

To win a stubborn, and ungratef ull heart ; 

And to the World, by tend' rest proof discovers 

They err, who say that husbands can't be lovers. 

With such return of passion, as is due, 

Daphnis I love, Daphnis my thoughts persue, 

Daphnis, my hopes, my joys, are bounded all in you: 

Ev'n I, for Daphnis, and my promise sake, 

What I in women censure, undertake. 

But this from love, not vanity, proceeds ; 

You know who writes; and I who 'tis that reads. 

Judge not my passion, by my want of skill, • 

Many love well, though they express itt ill; 

And I your censure cou'd with pleasure bear, 

Wou'd you but soon return, and speak itt here. 

TO MK. F. NOW EAKL OF W. 

Who going abroad, had desired Ardelia to write some Verses upon 

ivhatever Subject she thought fit, against his Return in the 

Evening 

Written in the Year 1689 

No sooner, Flavio, was you gone. 
But, your Injunction thought upon, 

Ardelia took the Pen ; 
Designing to perform the Task, 
Her Flavio did so kindly ask. 

Ere he returned agen. 

Unto Parnassus strait she sent. 
And bid the Messenger, that went 

Unto the Muses Court, 
Assure them, she their Aid did need, 10 

And begg'd they'd use their utmost Speed, 

Because the Time was short. 



Countess of Winchilsea 21 

The hasty Summons was allow'd; 

And being well-bred, they rose and bow'd, 

And said, they'd poste away; 
That well they did Aedelia know, 
And that no Female's Voice below 

They sooner wou'd obey: 

That many of that rhiming Train, 

On like Occasions, sought in vain 20 

Their Industry t'excite; 
But for Ardelia all they'd leave: 
Thus flatt'ring can the Muse deceive. 

And wheedle us to write. 

Yet, since there was such haste requir'd ; 
To know the Subject 'twas desir'd. 

On which they must infuse; 
That they might temper Words and Rules, 
And with their Counsel carry Tools, 

As Country -i)ac/o7'S use. 30 

Wherefore to cut off all Delays, 

'Twas soon reply'd, a Husband' s Praise 

(Tho' in these looser Times) 
Ardelia gladly wou'd rehearse 
A HusbancVs, who indulg'd her Verse, 

And now requir'd her Rimes. 

A Husband! eccho'd all around: 
And to Parnassus sure that Sound 

Had never yet been sent ; 
Amazement in each Face was read, 40 

In haste th' affrighted Sisters fled. 

And unto Council went. 



22 The Poems of Anne 

Erato cry'd, since GrizcVs Days, 

Since jTro^z-Town pleas'd, and Chivcij-chace, 

No such Design was known; 
And 'twas their Business to take care, 
It reach'd not to the publick Ear, 

Or got about the Town: 

Nor came where Evening Beaux were met 

O'er Billet-doux and Chocolate, 50 

Lest it destroy'd the House; 
For in that Place, who cou'd dispence 
(That wore his Cloaths with common Sense) 

With mention of a Spouse? 

'Twas put unto the Vote at last. 
And in the Negative it past, 

None to her Aid shou'd move; 
Yet since Ardelia was a Friend, 
Excuses 'twas agreed to send. 

Which plausible might prove: 60 

That Pegasus of late had been 
So often rid thro' thick and thin. 

With neither Fear nor Wit; 
In Panegyrick been so spurr'd. 
He cou'd not from the Stall be stirr'd, 

Nor wou'd endure the Bit. 

Melpomene had given a Bond, 
By the new House alone to stand, 

And write of War and Strife; 
Thalia, she had taken Fees, 70 

And Stipends from the Patentees, 

And durst not for her Life. 



Countess of Winchilsea 23 

Urania only lik'd the Choice ; 

Yet not to thwart the publick Voice, 

She whisp'ring did impart: 
They need no Foreign Aid invoke, 
No help to draw a moving Stroke, 

Who dictate from the Heart. 

Enough! the pleas'd Aedelia cry'd; 

And slighting ev'ry Muse beside, 80 

Consulting now her Breast, 
Perceived that ev'ry tender Thought, 
Which from abroad she'd vainly sought. 

Did there in Silence rest: 

And shou'd unmov'd that Post maintain, 
Till in his quick Return again. 

Met in some neighb'ring Grove, 
(Where Vice nor Vanity appear) 
Her Flavio them alone might hear, 

In all the Sounds of Love. 90 

For since the World do's so despise 
Hymen's Endearments and its Ties, 

They shou'd mysterious be; 
Till We that Pleasure too possess 
(Which makes their fancy'd Happiness) 

Of stollen Secrecy. 

A LETTER TO THE SAME PERSON 

Sure of Success, to You I boldly write 
Whilst Love do's ev'ry tender Line endite; 
Love, who is justly President of Verse, 
Which all his Servants write, or else rehearse. 
Phoebus (howe'er mistaken Poets dream) 



24 The Poems of Anne 

Ne'er us'd a Verse, till Love became his Theme. 

To his stray'd Son, still as his Passion rose, 

He rais'd his hasty Voice in clam'rous Prose: 

But when in Daphne he wou'd Love inspire. 

He woo'd in Verse, set to his silver Lyre. 10 

The Trojan Prince did pow'rful Numbers join 
To sing of War; but Love was the Design: 
And sleeping Troy again in Flames was drest, 
To light the Fires in pitying Didoes Breast. 

Love without Poetry's refining Aid 
Is a dull Bargain, and but coarsely made; 
Nor e'er cou'd Poetry successful prove, 
Or touch the Soul, but when the Sense was Love. 

Oh! cou'd they both in Absence now impart 
Skill to my Hand, but to describe my Heart; 20 

Then shou'd you see impatient of your Stay 
Soft Hopes contend with Fears of sad Delay ; 
Love in a thousand fond Endearments there. 
And lively Images of You appear. 
But since the Thoughts of a Poetick Mind 
Will never be to Syllables confin'd; 
And whilst to fix what is conceiv'd, we try, 
The purer Parts evaporate and dye: 
You must perform what they want force to do, 
And think what your Aedelia thinks of you. 30 

October 21, 1690. 

UPON ARDELIA'S RETURN HOME 
{After to[o] long a walk in Eashvell Park) in a ivater cart driven 
by one of the under-keepers in his green Coat, with a Hazel- 
Bough for a whip. July, 1689 

What Fate within itts Bosome carry's 
For Him thats born, or Him that Marry's 
Though Fate itts self does not unfold 



Countess of Winchilsea 25 

Is by Progiiosticaters told, 

And some have spent their Days in terrour 

Of what has sprung from canting errour 

From Gypsies who their speech confounding 

Have threaten'd Hanging, Horn or Drowning 

In hints where doubtful! sence has hover'd 

Which caus'd but laughter when discover' d. 10 

ISo had Ardelia sure been troubl'd 
If when of piece of silver bubl'd 
T' had been in broaken terms imparted 
That e're her Death she shou'd be Carted. 
Yett see how Time had turn'd the Story 
And tun'd itt to Poetick Glory 
When once reveal'd that Phoebus gave itt 
And own'd the Cart and Swayne that drave itt 
In his peculiar colours seen 

Both whip and man array'd in Green 20 

That 'twas the Engin that did bring 
The water from his darling spring 
Which for repose was now convey'd 
Beneath a Beeche's secret shade. 
When poor Ardelia weak and faint 
Invades the air with this complaint 
That she from Home so far had stray'd 
By the aluring Muse betray' d 
By Fancies light of Nymphs and Faries 
Romantick Notions and figary's 30 

Of Fawns and Sylvans dark abodes 
Of Heroes rushing from the woods 
Till length of way no strength had left her 
And both of feet and breath bereft her 
W^ho now must take for Bed and Cover 
Cold earth and boughs which dangl'd over 
Nor cou'd return in sheets to slumber 



26 The Poems of Anne 

No more then she the stars cou'd number, 

Yett loth this wretched course to follow 

For once resolv'd to move Apollo. 40 

Misled by Him and his vain Rabble, 

To try his Curtesie and Stable 

She then implor'd that for this time 

And to be sure she sue'd in Rime 

That he his Chariot wou'd but spare her 

Which in a moment home might bear her 

Scarse miss'd by him or his nine lasses. 

But he reply 'd she'd break the Glasses, 

That late he saw such Fate attend her 

And vow'd that his he n'ere wou'd lend her 50 

That fitter 'twere she took the air 

Like Country Doll to neighb'ring Faire 

Like harvest Gill or stroling Player 

For he'd not bear the World's reproaches 

If Poets were allow'd their Coaches 

Who spar'd on foot (with empty Purses) 

Nor Prince nor Prelat in their verses 

That Homer poor his spite to smother 

Made fighting Fooles revile each other 

Who had he but been back'd with Pelf 60 

He had call'd Dogs and Rogues himself 

Lampoon'd Queen Hellens well sung Flame 

And giv'n Her but her coarsest Name 

For which good cause and more 'iwas hinted 

The Tribe sliou'd be ke})t bare and stinted 

Shou'd cat by manners and good Nature 

Or starve on Epigram and Satir. 

She finding him thus liott proceed 

Desir'd then but his winged steed 

But he reply'd 'twou'd muc-h disgrace him 70 

To lett a female rider pace him 



Countess of Winchilsea 27 

That Pegasus, what e're they fancy'd 

Had ne're for them one step advanced 

Yett if that she like Quaker tir'd 

But a conveniency desir'd 

There shou'd from neer a verdant bush 

With foot cloath matt and seat of rush 

Be drawn a rev' rend grave Machine 

As slow as if for Spanish Queen 

As safe as Litter gently led 80 

With Lady sleeping in her bed 

And tho' the form some might dispise 

Who view'd itt but with outward Eyes 

Yett Quixotts Brancart till he built itt 

A Velvett roof and richly gilt itt 

With Fancy's Pencil was not braver 

And with th' invention which he gave her 

She might convert wou'd she not spare itt 

This Roulo to tryumphant Charret 

Turn wood to steel and ropes to Leather 90 

And forehead bough to Ostritch Feather 

Since all was as opinion made itt 

Not as the Artists hand ore-laid itt. 

This said, he mixt with shining Day 

And left her to persne the way 

Exalted high to all beholders 

As Burgesse on ellecting shoulders 

On totterring chair in Tumbrill's middle 

And wanting but fore-running Fiddle 

To guide the wondering Rabble right 100 

And pick their Purses for the sight. 



28 The Poems of Anne 



AN INVITATION TO DAFNIS 

To leave his study and usual Employments, — Mathematicks 
Paintings, etc. and to take the Pleasures of the feilds ivith 
Ar delta 

When such a day, blesst the Arcadian plaine, 
Warm without Sun, and shady without rain, 
Fann'd by an air, that scarsly bent the flowers. 
Or wav'd the woodbines, on the summer bowers, 
The Nymphs disorder'd beauty cou'd not fear, 
Nor ruffling winds uncurFd the Shepheards hair. 
On the fresh grasse, they trod their measures light, 
And a long Evening made, from noon, to night. 
Come then my Dafnis, from those cares descend 
Which better may the winter season spend. 10 

Come, and the pleasures of the feilds, survey, 
And throo' the groves, with your Ardelia stray. 

Reading the softest Poetry, refuse. 

To veiw the subjects of each rural muse ; 

Nor lett the busy compasses go round. 

When faery Cercles better mark the ground. 

Rich Colours on the Vellum cease to lay. 

When ev'ry lawne much nobler can display, 

When on the daz'ling poppy may be seen 

A glowing red, exceeding your carmine; 20 

And for the blew that o're the Sea is borne, 

A brighter rises in our standing corn. 

Come then, my Dafnis, and the feilds survey. 
And throo' the groves, with your Ardelia stray. 

Come, and lett Sansons World, no more engage, 
Altho' he gives a Kingdom in a page; 
O're all the Vniverse his lines may goe, 



Countess of Winchilsea 29 

And not a clime, like temp'rate brittan show, 
Come then, my Dafnis, and her feilds survey, 
And throo' the groves, with your Ardelia stray. 30 

Nor plead that you're immur'd, and cannot yield, 

That mighty Bastions keep you from the feild, 

Think not tho' lodg'd in Mons, or in Namur, 

You're from my dangerous attacks secure. 

No, Louis shall his falling Conquests fear, 

When by succeeding Courriers he shall hear . 

Appollo, and the Muses, are drawn down, 

To storm each fort, and take in ev'ry Town. 

Vauban, the Orphean Lyre, to mind shall call. 

That drew the stones to the old Theban Wall, 40 

And make no doubt, if itt against him play, 

They, from his works, will fly as fast away, 

Which to prevent, he shall to peace persuade. 

Of strong, confederate Syllables, afPraid. 

Come then, my Dafnis, and the fields survey. 
And throo' the Groves, with your Ardelia stray. 

Come, and attend, how as we walk along. 

Each chearfull bird, shall treat us with a song, 

Nott such as Fopps compose, where witt, nor art, 

Nor plainer Nature, ever bear a part ; 50 

The Cristall springs, shall murmure as we passe, 

But not like Courtiers, sinking to disgrace; 

Nor, shall the louder Rivers, in their fall. 

Like unpaid Saylers, or hoarse Pleaders brawle; 

But all shall form a concert to delight, 

And all to peace, and all to love envite. 

Come then, my Dafnis, and the feilds survey. 
And throo' the Groves, with your Ardelia stray. 



30 The Poems of Anne 

As Baucis and Philemon spent their lives, 
Of husbands he, the happyest she, of wives, 60 

When throo' the painted meads, their way they sought, 
Harmlesse in act, and unperplext in thought, 
Lett us my Dafnis, rural joys persue. 
And Courts, or Camps, not ev'n in fancy view. 
So, lett us throo' the Groves, my Dafnis stray, 
And so, the pleasures of the feilds, survey. 

THE GOUTE AND SPIDER 

A Fable 

Imitated from Mon^"". de la Fontaine And Inscribed to Mr. Finch 
After his first Fiit of that Distemper 

When from th' Infernal pitt two Furies rose 

One foe to Flies and one to Mans repose 

Seeking aboue to find a place secure 

Since Hell the Goute nor Spider cou'd indure 

On a rich Pallace at the first they light 

Where pleas'd Arachne dazzl'd with the sight 

In a conspiccuous corner of a Room 

The hanging Frett work makes her active Loom. 

From leaf to leaf with every line does trace. 

Admires the strange convenience of the place 10 

Nor can belieue those Cealings e're were made 

To other end than to promote her Trade 

Where prou'd and prosper'd in her finish'd work 

The hungry Fiend does in close Ambush lurk 

Untill some silly Insect shall repay 

What from her Bowells she has spun that day. 

The wiser Gout (for that's a thinking ill) 

Oljserving how the splended chambers fill 

With visitors such as abound below 

Who from Hypocrates and Gallen grow 20 



Countess op Winchilsea 31 

To some unwealthy shed resolues to fly 

And there obscure and unmolested lye 

But see how eithers project quickly fails 

The Clown his new tormentor with him trayles 

Through miry ways rough Woods and furrow'd Lands 

Ne're cutts the Shooe nor propped on Crutches stands 

With Phoebus rising stays with Cynthia out 

Allows no respitt to the harrass'd Gout. 

Whilst with extended Broom th' unpittying Maid 
Does the transparent Laberynth invade 30 

Back stroke and fore the battering Engin went 
Broke euery Cord and quite unhing'd the Tent 
No truce the tall Virago e're admitts 
Contracted and abash'd Arachne' sitts 
Then in conuenient Time the Work renews 
The battering Ram again the work persues. 
What's to be done ? The Gout and Spider meet, 
Exchange, the Cottage this; That takes the feet 
Of the rich Abbott who that Pallace kept 
And 'till that time in Velvet Curtains slept 40 

Now Colwort leaues and Cataplasms (tho vain) 
Are hourly order'd by that griping traine. 
Who blush not to Prescribe t'exhaust our Gold 
For aches which incurable they hold 
Whil'st stroak'd and fixt the pamper'd Gout remains 
And in an easy Chair euer the Preist detains. 

In a thatched Roof secure the Spider thrives, 
Both mending by due place their hated lines. 
From whose succeeding may this moral grow 
That each his propper Station learn to know. 50 

For You my Dear whom late that pain did seize, 
Not rich enough to sooth the bad disease 
By large expences to engage his stay 



32 The Poems of Anne 

Nor yett so poor to fright the Gout away 

May you but some unfrequent Visits find 

To prove you patient, your Ardelia kind 

Who by a tender and officious care 

Will ease that Grief or her proportion bear 

Since Heaven does in the Nuptial state admitt 

Such cares but new endearments to begett 60 

And to allay the hard fatigues of life 

Gaue the first Maid a Husband, Him a Wife. 

UPON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HONORABLE WIL 
LIAM LORD MAIDSTON 

Who ivas a Volunteere in the Sol-bay Fight and kilVd by a Ran- 
dom shott, after the fight ivas over and the Fleets iiarted. 
On May 28th, 1672 

Fate 'till the Day was ours, wou'd not dispense 
With Maidston's aid, for Brittan's strong defence: 
But then, least Pride, might by successe prevaile. 
Threw in His losse, to poize th' unequal skale; 
Giving us Sway; the Dutch a cause to boast 
They'd kill'd one man, excelling all they losst. 

FROM THE MUSES, AT PARNASSUS 
(a hill so calVd in Eastwell Park) to the Right Hon''^" y^ Ldy : 
Maidston on my Lord Winchilsea^s Birth-day 

Wonder not. Madam, that the Muses pay 

Their gratef uU tribute, on this happy day ; 

And in loud wishes, all their force employ. 

That many more, like this, you may enjoy; 

Since from your own Parnassus, they receive 

Pleasure's, which theirs in Phocis, never gave; 

And own, whilst here they reach the height of blisse. 

Their forked hill, was but a type of this. 

See where they come, their brows with lawrel bound. 

And hear the neighbouring woods, repeat the sound, 10 



Countess of Winchilsea 33 

Of silver harps, and voyces that proclame 

To all the expecting world, his growing fame, 

Whom you, this day, presented to the earth, 

Whilst Heav'n look'd down, and smil'd, upon the birth. 

Hark! How they sing the Line from whence he springs, 

And trace his blood, until itt mix with Kings, 

That Suifolks soul, reviv'd in him is seen, 

And on his face, the beautys of his Queen. 

The air of youth, such as Adonis drest. 

When Cytherea lodg'd him on her brest; 20 

So yong, so gay, that when he haunts the groves. 

The crouded shades, are throng'd with wondring Loves, 

Who think him born, protector of their reign, 

And boast what Conquests now they shall obtain. 

They sing him Heir, to all your graces born. 

And full perfections by his Father worn. 

They sing him Heir, to all their shades and bow'rs, 

And plead a Title to him, great as yours. 

Call him their Son, their darling, their delight. 

And dresse his thoughts with all that's great, and bright ; 30 

Their promised Isack, sent, when with dispair. 

They saw witt old, and hopelesse of an heir. 

In him, they doubt not, their lost fame to raise, 

Who has out-grown allready, all their praise, 

And is above what e're they can inspire. 

Leaving you. Madam, nothing to desire. 

UPON MY LORD WINCHILSEA'S CONVERTING THE 
MOUNT IN HIS GARDEN TO A TERRAS, 

And other Alterations, and Imiorovements, In His House, Park, 

and Gardens 

If we those Gen'rous Sons deserv'dly Praise 
Who o're their Predecessours Marble raise. 
And by Inscriptions, on their Deeds, and Name, 



34 The Poems of Anne 

To late Posterity, convey their Fame, 

What with more Admiration, shall we write, 

On Him, who takes their Errours from our sight ? 

And least their Judgments be in question brought, 

Removes a Mountain, to remove a fault ? 

Which long had stood (though threatnd oft in vain), 

Concealing all the beautys of the Plaine. 10 

Heedlesse when Yong, cautious in their decline. 

None gone before persu'd the vast dessign. 

Till ripen'd Judgment, joyn'd with Youthfull Flame, 

At last but Came, and Saw, and Overcame. 

And as old Rome refin'd what ere was rude. 

And Civiliz'd, as fast as she subdu'd. 

So lies this Hill, hew'n from itts rugged height, 

Now levell'd to a Scene of smooth delight. 

Where on a Terras of itts spoyles we walk. 

And of the Task, and the performer talk ; 20 

From whose unwearied Genius Men expect 

All that can farther Pollish or Protect; 

To see a sheltring grove the Prospect bound, 

Just rising from the same proliffick ground, 

Where late itt stood, the Glory of the Seat, 

Repell'd the Winter blasts, and skreen'd the Somer's heat ; 

So prais'd, so lov'd, that when untimely Fate, 

Sadly prescrib'd itt a too early Date, 

The heavy tidings cause a gen'ral Grief, 

And all combine to bring a swift relief. 30 

Some Plead, some Pray, some Councel, some Dispute, 

Alas in vain, where Pow'r is Absolute. 

Those whom Paternal Awe, forbid to speak. 

Their sorrows, in their secret whispers break. 

Sigh as they passe beneath the sentenc'd Trees, 

Which seem to answer in a mournfull Breeze. 

The very Clowns (hir'd by his dayly Pay), 



Countess of Winchilsea 35 

Refuse to strike, nor will their Lord obey, 

Till to his speech he adds a leading stroke. 

And by Example does their Rage provoke. 40 

Then in a moment, ev'ry arm is rear'd, 

And the robb'd Palace sees, what most she fear'd, 

Her lofty Grove, her ornamental shield, 

Turn'd to a Desert, and forsaken Field. 

So fell Persepolis, bewail'd of all 

But Him, whose rash Resolve procur'd her Fall. 

No longer now, we such Destructions fear. 

No longer the resounding Axe we hear, 

But in Exchange, behold the Fabrick stand. 

Built, and Adorn'd by a supporting hand; 50 

Compleat, in all itts late unequall Frame, 

No Loame, and Lath, does now the Building shame, 

But gracefull simetry, without is seen. 

And Use, with Beauty are improv'd within. 

And though our Ancestors did gravely Plott, 

As if one Element they vallu'd nott. 

Nor yet the pleasure of the noblest sence. 

Gainst Light and Air to raise a strong defense; 

Their wiser Offspring does those gifts renew. 

And now we Breath[e] and now the eager View 60 

Through the enlarged Windows take[s] her way. 

Does beauteous Fields, and scatter'd Woods survey, 

Flyes or'e th' extended Land, and sinks but in the Sea. 

Or when contented with an easyer flight. 

The new wrought Gardens, give a new delight, 

Where ev'ry fault, that in the Old was found. 

Is mended, in the well disposed Ground. 

Such are th' Effects, when Wine, nor loose delights. 

Devour the Day, nor waste the thoughtlesse Nights, 

But gen'rous Arts, the studious Hours engage, 70 

To blesse the present, and succeeding Age. 



36 The Poems op Anne 

Oh! may Eastwell, still with their aid eUcrease, 

Plenty surround her, and within be peace. 

Still may her temperate Air his Health maintain, 

From whom she does such Strength and Beauty gain. 

Florish her Trees, and may the Verdant Grasse 

Again prevail, where late the plough did passe. 

Still may she boast a kind and fruitfull soyle, 

And still new pleasures give to crown his Toyle, 

And may some one, with Admiration fill'd, 80 

In just Applauses, and in Numbers skill' d. 

Not with more Zeal, but more poetick heat, 

Throughly Adorn, what barely we Relate. 

Then, shou'd th' Elysian Groves no more be Nam'd, 

Nor Tempe's Vale, be any longer Fam'd, 

She shou'd the Theame, to ev'ry Verse affoard, 

Until the Muse, when to advantage soar'd, 

Shou'd take a nobler Aim, and dare describe her Lord. 



A SONG 
For my B^. Les : Finch. Upon a Punch Boivl 

From the Park, and the Play, 

And Whitehall come away, 
To the Punch-bowl, by far more inviting; 

To the Fopps, and the Beauxs, 

Leaue those dull empty shows, 
And see here, what is truly delighting. 

The half Globe 'tis in figure ; 

And wou'd itt were bigger; 
Yett here's the whole Universe floating, 

Here's Titles and Places, 

Rich lands, and fair faces, 
And all that is worthy our doating. 



Countess of Winchilsea 37 

'Twas a World, like to this, 

The hott Grsecian did misse, 
Of whom History's keep such a pother, 

To the bottom he sunk, 

And when one he had drunk 
Grew maudlin, and wept for another. 



THE BARGAIN 

A Song in dialogue between Bacchus and Cupid 

Cupid 

Bacchus, to thee that turn'st the brain. 
And doest o're mighty punch bowls reign, 
Enthron'd upon thy lusty barrell, 
I drink, to drown the ancient quarrell; 
And mortalls shall no more dispute 
Which of us two, is absolute. 

Bacchus 

I pledge thee Archer, nor disdain 

To own thou over hearts doest reign. 

But tears thou drink'st, drawn from low courage, 

And cool'd with sighs, instead of burrage; 

Were that errour once ammended, 

All, might in Champaine be ended. 

Cupid 

I am content, so we may joyn. 
To mix my waters, with thy wine; 
Then henceforth farwell all defying, 
And thus, we'll still be found complying. 
He, that's in love, shall fly to thee. 
And he thats drunk, shall reel to mee. 



38 The Poems of Anne 

TO MY SISTER OGLE, DECBR 31, 1688 

When dear Teresa, shall I be 
By Heaven, again restor'd to you? 
Thus, if once more your face I see, 
Thus, our lost pleasures, we'll renew. 

Our yesterday, when kindly past. 
Shall teatch how this should be enjoy'd, 
And urge to morrows eager haste. 
As longing, to be thus employ' d. 

Time, shall pay back the years and hours, 
That in our absence posted by ; 
Time, shall submitt to freindships pow'rs, 
And as we please, shall rest, or fly. 

The sun, that stood to look on War, 
And lengthen'd out that fatal day. 
For kindnesse, more engaging far, 
Will longer sure, his fall delay. 

At last, when Fate, the word shall give. 
That we no longer, here below. 
This soft, endearing life shall live, 
In Tryumph we'll together go, 

New arts to find, new joys to try. 
The height of freindship to improve; 
Tis' worth our pains, and fears to dye; 
To learn new misteries of Love. 

ARDELIA'S ANSWER TO EPHELIA, 

who had invited her to come to her in town — reflecting on the 

Coquetterie and detracting humour of the Age 

Me, dear Ephelia, me, in vain you court 

With all your pow'rfull influence, to resort 

To that great Town, where Freindship can but have 



Countess of Winchilsea 39 

The few spare hours, which meaner pleasures leave. 

No! Let some shade, or your large Pallace be 

Our place of meeting, love, and liberty; 

To thoughts, and words, and all endearments free. 

But, to those walls, excuse my slow repair; 

Who have no businesse, or diversion there ; 

No daz'ling beauty, to attract the gaze 10 

Of won'd'ring crouds to my applauded face ; 

Nor to my little witt, th' ill nature joyn'd, 

To passe a gen' rail censure on mankind: 

To call the yong, and unaffected, fools; 

Dull all the grave, that live by moral rules; 

To say the souldier brags, who ask'd declares 

The nice escapes and dangers of his wars. 

The Poet's vain, that knows his unmatch'd worth, 

And dares maintain what the best Muse brings forth : 

Yett, this the humour of the age is grown, 20 

And only conversation of the Town. 

In Satir vers'd, and sharpe detraction, bee. 

And you're accomplish'd, for all company. 

II 

When my last visit, I to London made. 
Me, to Almeria, wretched chance, betray'd; 
The fair Almeria, in this art so known. 
That she discerns all failings, but her own. 
With a lowd welcome, and a strict embrace, 
Kisses on kisses, in a publick place, 

Sh' extorts a promise, that next day I dine 30 

With her, who for my sight, did hourly pine; 
And wonders, how so far I can remove, 
From the beaux monde, and the dull country love; 
Yet vows, if but an afternoon 'twoud cost 
To see me there, she cou'd resolve allmost 



40 The Poems of Anne 

To quitt the Town, and for that time, be lost. 

My word I keep, we dine, then rising late, 
Take coach, which long had waited at the gate. 
About the streets, a tedious ramble goe. 
To see this Monster, or that wax work show, 40 

Or any thing, that may the time bestow. 
When by a Church we passe, I ask to stay, 
Go in, and my devotions, humbly pay 
To that great Pow'r, whom all the wise obey. 
Whilst the gay thing, light as her feather' d dresse, 
Flys round the Coach, and does each cusheon presse. 
Through ev'ry glasse, her sev'ral graces shows, 
This, does her face, and that, her shape expose, 
To envying beautys, and admiring beauxs. 
One stops, and as expected, all extolls, 50 

Clings to the door, and on his elbow lolls, 
Thrusts in his head, at once to veiw the fair, 
And keep his curls from discomposing air. 
Then thus proceeds — 

My wonder itt is grown 
To find Almeria here, and here alone. 
Where are the Nymphs, that round you us'd to croud, 
Of your long courted approbation proud. 
Learning from you, how to erect their hair. 
And in perfection, all their habitt wear, 
To place a patch, in some peculiar way, 60 

That may an unmark'd smile, to sight betray, 
And the vast genius of the Sex, display? 

Pitty me then (she crys) and learn the fate 
That makes me Porter to a Temple gate; 
Ardelia came to Town, some weeks agoe, 
Who does on books her rural hours bestow, 
And is so rustick in her cloaths and meen, 
'Tis with her ungenteel but to be seen, 



Countess of Winchilsea 41 

Did not a long acquaintance plead excuse ; 

Besides, she likes no witt, thats now in use, 70 

Dispises Courtly Vice, and plainly sais. 

That sence and Nature shou'd be found in Plays, 

And therefore, none will 'ere be brought to see 

But those of Dryden, Etheridge, or Lee, 

And some few Authors, old, and dull to me. 

To her I did engage my coach and day. 

And here must wait, while she within does pray. 

Ere twelve was struck, she calls me from my bed. 

Nor once observes how well my toilett's spread; 

Then, drinks the fragrant tea contented up, 80 

Without a complement upon the cup, 

Tho' to the ships, for the first choice I stear'd, 

Through such a storm, as the stout bargemen fear'd ; 

Least that a praise, which I have long engross' d 

Of the best china Equipage, be lost. 

Of fashions now, and colours I discours'd. 

Detected shops that wou'd expose the worst. 

What silks, what lace, what rubans she must have, 

And by my own, an ample pattern gave ; 

To which, she cold, and unconcern'd reply'd, 90 

I deal with one that does all these provide, 

Hauing of other cares, enough beside ; 

And in a cheap, or an ill chosen gown, 

Can valine blood that's nobler then my own, 

And therefore hope, my self not to be weigh'd 

By gold, or silver, on my garments laid; 

Or that my witt, or judgment shou'd be read 

In an uncomon colour on my head. 

Stupid! and dull, the shrugging Zany crys; 
When, service ended, me he moving spy's, 100 

Hastes to conduct me out, and in my ear 
Drops some vile praise, too low for her to hear; 



42 The Poems of Anne 

Which to avoid, more then the begging throng, 
I reach the coach, that swiftly rowls along, 
Least to Hide park, we shou'd too late be brought, 
And loose e're night, an hour of finding fault, 
Arriv'd, she crys, — 

that awk'ard creature see, 
A fortune born, and wou'd a beauty bee 
Cou'd others but beleive, as fast as she. 
Round me, I look, some Monster to discry, 110 

Whose wealthy acres, must a Title buye. 
Support my Lord, and be, since his have fail'd, 
With the high shoulder, on his race entayl'd; 
When to my sight, a lovely face appears, 
Perfect in e'vry thing, but growing years; 
This I defend, to do my judgment right. 
Can you dispraise a skin so smooth, so white. 
That blush, which o're such well turn'd cheeks does rise, 
That look of youth, and those enliven'd eyes ? 
She soon replies, — 120 

that skin, which you admire. 
Is shrunk, and sickly, cou'd you view itt nigher. 
The crimson lining and uncertain light, 
Reflects that blush, and paints her to the sight. 
Trust me, the look, which you coinend, betrays 
A want of sence, more then the want of days. 
And those wild eyes, that round the cercle stray, 
Seem, as her witts, had but mistook their way. 
As I did mine, I to my self repeat. 
When by this envious side. I took my seat: 
Oh ! for my groves, my Country walks, and bow'rs, 130 
Trees blast not trees, nor flow'rs envenom flow'rs. 
As beauty here, all beautys praise devours. 
But Noble Piso passes, — 

he's a witt. 



Countess of Winchilsea 43 

As some (she sais) wou'd have itt, tho' as yett 

No line he in a Lady's fan has writt, 

N'ere on their dresse, in verse, soft things wou'd say, 

Or with loud clamour ouer powr'd a Play, 

And right or wrong, preuented the third day; 

To read in publick places, is not known, 

Or in his Chariot, here appears alone ; 140 

Bestows no hasty praise, on all that's new. 

When first this Coach came out to publick veiw, 

Mett in a visit, he presents his hand 

And takes me out, I make a willfull stand. 

Expecting, sure, this wou'd applause invite. 

And often turn'd, that way, to guide his sight ; 

Till finding him wrapp'd in a silent thought, 

I ask'd, if that the Painter well had wrought, 

Who then reply'd, he 'has in the Fable err'd, 

Cov'ring Adonis with a monstrous beard; 150 

Made Hercules (who by his club is shewn) 

A gentler fop then any of the Town, 

Whilst Venus, from a bogg is rising seen, 

And eyes a squint, are given to beautys queen 

I had no patience, longer to attend, 

And know 'tis want of witt, to discomend. 

Must Piso then! be judg'd by such as these, 
Piso, who from the Latin, Virgil frees, 
Who loos'd the bands, which old Sylenus bound. 
And made our Albion rocks repeat the mistick sound, 160 
" Whilst all he sung was present to our eyes 
"And as he rais'd his verse, the Poplars seem'd to rise?" 
Scarce cou'd I in my brest my thoughts contain, 
Or for this folly, hide my just disdain. 
When see, she says, observe my best of friends. 
And through the window, half her length extends 
Exalts her voyce, that all the ring may hear; 



44 The Poems of Anne 

How fuUsomly she oft repeats my dear, 

Letts fall some doubtfull words, that we may know 

There still a secret is, betwixt them two, 170 

And makes a sign, the small white hand to shew. 

When, Fate be prais'd, the coachman slacks the reins, 

And o're my lap, no longer now she leans. 

But how her choyce I like, does soon enquire ? 

Can I dislike I cry, what all admire. 
Discreet, and witty, civil and refin'd. 
Nor, in her person fairer then her mind. 
Is yong Alinda, if report be just; 
For half the Caracter, my eyes I trust. 
What chang'd Almeria, on a suddain cold, 180 

As if I of your freind, some tale had told? 
No, she replyes, but when I hear her praise, 
A secret failing does my pitty raise, 
Damon she loves, and 'tis my dayly care. 
To keep the passion from the publick ear, 
I ask, amaz'd, if this she has reveal'd. 
No, 'but tis true, she crys, though much conceal'd; 
I have observ'd itt long, nor wou'd betray 
But to your self, what now with greif I say. 
Who this, to none, but Confidents must break, 190 

Nor they to others, but in whispers, speak ; 
I am her freind and must consult her fame. 
More was she saying, when fresh objects came. 
Now what's that thing, she crys, Ardelia, guesse? 
A woman sure. — 

Ay and a Poetesse, 
They say she writes, and 'tis a comon jest. 
Then sure sli' has publickly the skill professt, 
I soon reply, or makes that gift her pride. 
And all the world, but scribblers, does deride; 
Setts out Lampoons, where only spite is seen, 200 

Not fill'd with female witt, but female spleen. 



Countess of Winchilsea 45 

Her florish'd name, does o're a song expose, 

Which through all ranks, down to the Carman, goes. 

Or poetry is on her Picture found. 

In which she sits, with painted lawrel crown'd. 

If no such flyes, no vanity defile 

The Helyconian balm, the sacred oyl, 

Why shou'd we from that pleasing art be ty'd, 

Or like State Pris'ners, Pen and Ink deny'd? 

But see, the Sun his chariot home has driv'n 210 

From the vast shining ring of spacious Heav'n, 

Nor after him Celestial beautys stay. 

But crou'd with sparkling wheels the milky way. 

Shall we not then, the great example take 

And ours below, with equal speed forsake? 

When to your favours, adding this one more. 

You'll stop, and leave me thank-full, att my door. 

How! e're you've in the Drawing-room appear'd. 

And all the follys there beheld and heard. 

Since you've been absent, such intrigues are grown; 220 

Such new Coquetts and Fops are to be shown. 

Without their sight you must not leave the Town. 

Excuse me, I reply, my eyes ne're feast 

Upon a fool, tho' ne're so nicely dresst. 

Nor is itt musick to my burthen'd ear 

The unripe prating' s of our sex to hear, 

A noysy girl, who' has at fifteen talk'd more 

Then Grandmother, or Mother here to fore. 

In all the cautious, prudent years they bore. 

Statesmen there are, (she crys) whom I can show 230 

That bear the kingdoms cares, on a bent brow; 

Who take the weight of politicks by grains, 

And to the least, know what each scull contains. 

Who's to be coach'd, who talk'd to when abroad. 

Who but the smile must have, and who the nod; 

And when this is the utmost of their skill. 



4:6 The Poems of Anne 

'Tis not much wonder, if affairs go ill; 
Then for the Church-men — 

hold my lodging's here; 
Nor can I longer a re-proof forbear 
When sacred things nor Persons she wou'd spare. 240 

We parted thus, the night in peace I spent, 
And the next day, with haste and pleasure went 
To the best seat of fam'd and fertile Kent. 
Where lett me live from all detraction free 
Till thus the World is criticis'd by mee ; 
Till freind, and Foe, I treat with such dispite 
May I no scorn, the worst of ills, excite. 

FKIENDSHIP BETWEEN EPHELIA AND ARDELIA 

Eph. What Friendship is, Aedelia shew. 

Ard. 'Tis to love, as I love You. 

Eph. This Account, so short (tho' kind) 

Suits not my enquiring Mind. 

Therefore farther now repeat; 

What is Friendship when compleat? 
Ard. 'Tis to share all Joy and Grief; 
'Tis to lend all due Relief 

From the Tongue, the Heart, the Hand; 

'Tis to mortgage House and Land; 

For a Friend be sold a Slave ; 

'Tis to die upon a Grave, 

If a Friend therein do lie. 
Eph. This indeed, tho' carry'd high, 

This, tho' more than e'er was done 

Underneath the rolling Sun, 

This has all been said before. 

Can Ardelia say no more? 
Ard. Words indeed no more can shew: 

But His to love, as I love you. 



Countess of Winchilsea 47 

A DESCRIPTION OF ONE OF THE PIECES OF TAPISTRY 
AT LONG-LEAT, 

made after the famous Cartons of Raphael; in which, Elymas 
the Sorcerer is miraculously struck blind by St. Paul before 
Sergius Paulus, the Proconsul of Asia 

Inscribed to the Hon^^^ Henry Thynne, under the name of 
Theanor 

Thus Tapistry of old, the Walls adorn'd, 
Ere noblest Dames the artful Shuttle scorn'd: 
Arachne, then, with Pallas did contest. 
And scarce th' Immortal Work was judg'd the Best. 
Nor valorous Actions, then, in Books were fought ; 
But all the Fame, that from the Field was brought, 
Employ'd the Loom, where the kind Consort wrought: 
Whilst sharing in the Toil, she shar'd the Fame, 
And with the Heroes mixt her interwoven Name. 
No longer, Females to such Praise aspire, 10 

And seldom now We rightly do admire. 
So much, All Arts are by the Men engross'd. 
And Our few Talents unimprov'd or cross' d ; 
Even I, who on this Subject wou'd compose. 
Which the fam'd Urbin for his Pencil chose, 
(And here, in tinctur'd Wool we now behold 
Correctly follow' d in each Shade, and Fold) 
Shou'd prudently from the Attempt withdraw, 
But Inclination proves the stronger Law: 
And tho' the Censures of the World pursue 20 

These hardy Flights, whilst his Designs I view; 
My burden'd Thoughts, which labour for a Vent, 
Urge me t' explain in Verse, what by each Face is meant. 

Of Sekgius first, upon his lofty Seat, 
With due Regard our Observations treat; 
Who, whilst he thence on Elymas looks down. 



48 The Poems of Anne 



Contracts his pensive Brow into a Frown, 
With Looks inquisitive he seeks the Cause 
Why Nature acts not still by Natures Laws. 
'Twas but a Moment, since the Sorcerer'' s Sight 30 

Receiv'd the Day, and blaz'd infernal Light: 
Untouch'd, the Optiques in a Moment fail'd, 
Their fierce Illumination quench' d, or veil'd; 
Throughout th' Extention of his ample Sway, 
No Fact, like this, the Roman cou'd survey, 
Who, with spread Hands, invites Mankind to gaze, 
And sympathize in the profound Amaze. 
To share his Wonder every one combines, 
By diff'rent Aspects shewn, and diff 'rent Signs. 
A comely Figure, near the Consul plac'd, 40 

With serious Mildness and Instruction grac'd, 
To Others seems imparting what he saw. 
And shews the Wretch with reverential Awe: 
Whilst a more eager Person next we find, 
Viewing the Wizard with a Sceptick's Mind; 
Who his fixt Eyes so near him do's apply, 
We think, enliv'ning Beams might from them fly. 
To re-inkindle, by so just an Aim, 
The radial Sparks, but lately check'd and tame, 
As Tapers new put-out will catch approaching flame. 50 
But dire Surprize th' Encjuiry do's succeed, 
Whilst full Conviction in his Face we read. 
And He, who question' d, now deplores the Deed. 

To sacred Paul a younger Figure guides, 

With seeming Warmth, which still in Youth presides; 

And pointing forward, Elder Men directs, 

In Him, to note the Cause of these Effects; 

Upon whose Brow do's evidently shine 

Deputed Pow'r, t' inflict the Wrath Divine; 



Countess of Winchilsea 49 

Whilst sad and solemn, suited to their Years, 60 

Each venerable Countenance appears. 

Where, yet we see Astonishment reveal'd, 

Tho' by the Aged often 'tis conceard; 

Who the Emotions of their Souls disguize, 

Lest by admiring they shou'd seem less Wise. 

But to thy Portrait, Elymas, we come 
Whose Blindness almost strikes the Poet dumb; 
And whilst She vainly to Describe thee seeks, 
The Pen but traces, where the Pencil speaks. 
Of Darkness to he felt, our Scriptures write, 70 

Thou Darken'd seem'st, as thou would'st feel the Light; 
And with projected Limbs, betray'st a Dread, 
Of unseen Mischiefs, levell'd at thy Head. 
Thro' all thy Frame such Stupefaction reigns. 
As Night it self were sunk into thy Veins: 
Nor by the Eyes alone thy Loss we find. 
Each Lineament helps to proclaim thee Blind. 
An artful Dimness far diffus'd we grant, 
And failing seem all Parts through One important Want. 

Oh! mighty Raphael, justly sure renown'd! 80 

Since in thy Works such Excellence is found; 
No Wonder, if with Nature Thou'rt at strife, 
Who thus can paint the Negatives of Life ; 
And Deprivation more expressive make. 
Than the most perfect Draughts, which Others take. 
Whilst to this Chiefest Figure of the Piece, 
All that surround it. Heigh tnings do encrease : 
In some. Amazement by Extreams is shewn. 
Who viewing his clos'd Lids, extend their Own. 
Nor can, by that, enough their Thoughts express, 90 

Which op'ning Mouths seem ready to confess. 



50 The Poems of Anne 

Thus stand the Lictors gazing on a Deed, 
Which do's all humane Chastisements exceed; 
Enfeebl'd seem their Instruments of smart, 
When keener Words can swifter Ills impart. 

Thou, Barnabas, though Last, not least our Care, 
Seem'st equally employed in Praise, and Prayer, 
Acknowledging th' Omnipotent Decree, 
Yet soft Compassion in thy Face we see: 
Whilst lifted Hands implore a kind Relief, 100 

Tho' no Impatience animates thy Grief; 
But mild Suspence and Charity benign. 
Do all th' excesses of thy Looks confine. 

Thus far, our slow Imagination goes: 
Wou'd the more skill'd Theanor his disclose; 
Expand the Scene, and open to our Sight 
What to his nicer Judgment gives Delight; 
Whose soaring Mind do's to Perfections climb. 
Nor owns a Relish, but for Things sublime: 
Then, wou'd the Piece fresh Beauties still present, 110 
Nor Length of Time wou'd leave the Eye content: 
As moments. Hours; as Hours the Days wou'd seem. 
Observing here, taught to observe by Him. 

GLASS 

O Man! what Inspiration was thy Guide, 

Who taught thee Light and Air thus to divide; 

To let in all the useful Beams of Day, 

Yet force, as subtil Winds, without thy Shash to stay; 

T' extract from Embers by a strange Device, 

Then polish fair these Flakes of solid Ice ; 

Which, silver'd o'er, redouble all in place, 

And give thee back thy well or ill-complexion'd Face. 



Countess of Winohilsea 51 

To Vessels blown exceed the gloomy Bowl, 
Which did the Wine's full excellence controul, 
These shew the Body, whilst you taste the Soul. 
Its colour sparkles Motion, lets thee see, 
Tho' yet th' Excess the Preacher warns to flee. 
Lest Men at length as clearly SDy through Thee. 

THE BIRD AND THE ARRAS 

By neer resemblance see that Bird betray'd 

Who takes the well wrought Arras for a shade 

There hopes tc pearch and with a chearfull Tune 

O're-passe the scortchings of the sultry Noon. 

But soon repuls'd by the obdurate scean 

How swift she turns but turns alas in vain 

That piece a Grove, this shews an ambient sky 

Where immitated Fowl their pinnions ply 

Seeming to mount in flight and aiming still more high. 

All she outstrip' s and with a moments pride 

Their understation silent does deride 

Till the dash'd Cealing strikes her to the ground 

No intercepting shrub to break the fall is found 

Recovering breath the window next she gaines 

Nor fears a stop from the transparent Panes. 

But we degresse and leaue th' imprison' d wretch 
Now sinking low now on a loftyer stretch 
Flutt'ring in endlesse cercles of dismay 
Till some kind hand directs the certain way 
Which through the casement an escape affoards 
And leads to ample space the only Heav'n of Birds. 



52 The Poems of Anne 



TO THE HONORABLE THE LADY WORSLEY AT LONG- 

LEATE 

Who had most obligingly desired my corresponding with her by 

Letters 

If from some lonely and obscure recesse 

The shunn''d retreat of solitary peace 

Lost to the World and like Ardelias seat 

Fitt only for the Wretch opress'd by Fate 

A melancholly summons had been sent 

To deal in Woe and mingle discontent 

By sympathising Lines t'attempt relief 

And load each Poste with sad exchange of grief 

No wonder had that comon Act express'd 

For still Distresse wou'd Herd with the distress'd 10 

And to our Cares itt seems a short allay 

To fold them close and from our selves convey. 

But that Utresia seeks to correspond 
With such a dull and disproportion' d hand 
Empty Replies endeavours to obtain 
From secrett Cells and from a clouded Brain 
Is something so unusual (tho so kind) 
That scarse th' exalted motions of her mind 
Or charms in Hers beyond each other Tongue 
(Had we not heard Him speak from whom she sprung) 20 
Cou'd more amaze us then this friendly part 
That she whom all aspire but to divert 
Makes itt of All her choice to sooth a sinking heart. 
Utresia in her fresh and smiling bloom 
With Joys incompass'd and new Joys to come 
Who like the Sun in her Meridian shows 
Surrounded with the Lustre she bestows 
Her self dispensing by her long'd for sight 
To every Place she visits full delight 
For Beauty this Prerogative maintains 30 



Countess op Winchilsea 53 

And ouer both the Sexes thus far reigns 

To chear all Hearts and to suspend our pains 

Who when such Eyes, so soft and bright we view 

Soften our Cares and grow enlighten'd too 

In sweet conformity to Things so fine 

No motions feel but such as in them shine. 

Cou'd but the Witt that on her paper flows 

Affect my Verse and tune itt to her Prose 

Through every Line a kindly warmth inspire 

And raise my Art equal to my desire 40 

Then shou'd my Hand snatch from the Muses store 

Transporting Figures n'ere expos'd before 

Somthing to Please so mouing and so new 

As not our Denham or our Cowley knew. 

Or shew (the harder labour to compleat) 

The real splendours of our fam'd Long-leate 

Which above Metaphor itts Structure reares 

Tho all Enchantment to our sight appears 

Magnificently Great the Eye to fill 

Minutely finish'd for our nices[t] skill 50 

Long-leate that justly has all Praise engross'd 

The Strangers wonder and our Nations boast 

Paint her Cascades that spread their sheets so wide 

And emulate th' Italian waters pride 

Her Fountains which so high their streames extend 

Th' amazed Clouds now feel the Rains ascend 

Whilst Phoebus as they tow'rds his Mantion flow 

Graces th' attempt and marks them with his Bow. 

Then shou'd my Pen (smooth as their Turf) convey 

Swift Thought o're Terasses that lead the way 60 

To flow'ry Groves where ev'ning Odours stray 

To Lab'rinths into which, who fondly comes, 

Attracted still and wilder' d with Parfumes, 

Till by acquaintance he their stations knows 

Here twists a Woodbine there a Jasmin grows 



54 The Poems of Anne 

Next springs th' Hesperian Broom and last tli' Assy- 
rian Rose, 
Shall endlesse Rove nor tread the way he went 
No Thread to guide his steps, no Clue but ravish'd scent. 
But Oh! Alas! cou'd we this Prospect give 
And make itt in true lights and shaddows live 70 

Ther's yett a Task att which 'twere vain to Strive 
His Genius who th' original improv'd 
To this degree that has our wonder mov'd 
Too great appears and awes the trembling hand 
Which can no Colours for that Draught comand 
No syllables the most sublimely wrought 
Can reach the loftier Immage of his thought 
Whose Judgment plac'd in a superior hight 
All things surveys with comprehensive sight 
Then pittying us below stoops to inform us right 80 
In Words which such convincing Reasons bear 
We silent wish that they engraven were 
And grudge those Sounds to the dispersing air. 
Protect Him Heaven and long may He appear 
The leading Star to his great Offspring here 
Their Treasury of Council and support 
Who when att last he shall attend your Court 
To all his future Race the mark shall be 
To stem the waves of Life's tempestuous Sea 
Who from abroad shall no Examples need 90 

Of men Recorded or who then Exceed 
To urdge their Virtue and exalt their Fame 
Whilest their own Weymouth stands their noblest Aime. 
But we Presume, and ne're must hope to trace 
His Worth profound, his Daughters matchlesse Grace 
Or draw paternall Witt deriv'd into her Face 
Though from his Presence and her Charms did grow 
The Joys Ardelia att Long-leat did know. 



Countess of Winohilsea 55 

So Paradice did wond'rous Things disclose 
Yett surely not from them itts Name arose 100 

Not from the Fruits in such profusion found 
Or early Beauties of th' enammell'd Ground 
Not from the Trees in their first leaves arraid 
Or Birds uncurs'd that Warbl'd in their shade 
Not from the streams that in new channells rol'd 
O're radiant Beds of uncorrupting Gold 
These might surprise but 'twas th' accomplish'd Pair 
That gave the Title and that made itt fair. 
All lesser Thoughts Immagination Balk 
'Twas Paradice in some expanded Walk 110 

To see Her motions, and attend his Talk 



THE FOLLOWING LINES 

occasioned by the Marriage of Edward Herbert Esquire, and 
Mrs. Elizabet Herbert 

Cupid one day ask'd his Mother, 
When she meant that he shou'd Wed? 
You're too Young, my Boy, she said: 
Nor has Nature made another 
Fit to match with Cupid's Bed. 

Cupid then her Sight directed 

To a lately Wedded Pair; 
Where Himself the Match effected ; 

They as Youthful, they as Fair. 

Having by Example carry'd 

This first Point in the Dispute ; 
WoRSELEY next he said's not Marry 'd: 

Her's with Cupids Charms may suit. 



56 The Poems of Anne 

ON THE DEATH OF THE HONOURABLE MR. JAMES 

THYNNE, 

Younger Son to the Right Honourable the Lord Viscount 
Weymouth 

Farewel, lov'd Youth! since 'twas the Will of Heaven 
So soon to take, what had so late been giv'n; 
And thus our Expectations to destroy, 
Raising a Grief, where we had formed a Joy ; 
Who once believ'd, it was the Fates Design 
In Him to double an Illustrious Line, 
And in a second Channel spread that Race 
Where ev'ry Virtue shines, with every Grace. 
But we mistook, and 'twas not here below 
That this engrafted Scion was to grow ; 10 

The Seats above requir'd him, that each Sphere 
Might soon the Offspring of such Parents share. 
Resign him then to the supream Intent, 
You, who but Flesh to that blest Spirit lent. 
Again disrob'd, let him to Bliss retire. 
And only bear from you, amidst that Choir, 
What, Precept or Example did inspire, 
A Title to Rewards, from that rich store 
Of Pious Works, which you have sent before. 
Then lay the fading Reliques, which remain, 20 

In the still Vault (excluding farther Pain) ; 
Where Kings and Counsellors their Progress close, 
And his renowned Ancestors repose ; 
Where Coventry withdrew All but in Name, 
Leaving the World his Benefits and Fame ; 
Where his Paternal Predecessor lies. 
Once large of Thought, and rank'd among the Wise; 
Whose Genius in Long-Leat we may behold 
(A Pile, as noble as if he'd been told 



Countess of Winchilsea 57 

By Weymouth, it sliou'd be in time possest, 30 

And strove to suit the Mansion to the Guest.) 

Nor favoured, nor disgrac'd, there Essex sleeps, 

Nor Somerset his Master's Sorrows weeps, 

Who to the shelter of th' unenvy'd Grave 

Convey'd the Monarch, whom he cou'd not save; 

Though, Homcm-like, his own less-valu'd Head 

He profPer'd in that injur'd Martyr's stead. 

Nor let that matchless Female 'scape my Pen, 

Who their Whole Duty taught to weaker Men, 

And of each Sex the Two best Gifts enjoy'd 40 

The Skill to write, the Modesty to hide ; 

Whilst none shou'd that Performance disbelieve, 

Who led the Life, might the Directions give. 

With such as These, whence He deriv'd his Blood, 

Great on Record, or eminently Good, 

Let Him be laid, till Death's long Night shall cease, 

And breaking Glory interrupt the Peace. 

Mean-while, ye living Parents, ease your Grief 

By Tears, allow'd as Nature's due Relief. 

For when we offer to the Pow'rs above, 50 

Like You, the dearest Objects of our Love ; 

When, with that patient Saint in Holy Writ, 

We've learnt at once to Grieve, and to Submit; 

When contrite Sighs, like hallow'd Incense, rise 

Bearing our Anguish to th' appeased Skies; 

Then may those Show'rs, which take from Sorrow birth, 

And still are tending tow'rd this baleful Earth, 

O'er all our deep and parching Cares diffuse, 

Like EderCs Springs, or Hermori's soft'ning Dews. 

But lend your Succours, ye Almighty Pow'rs, 60 

For as the Wound, the Balsam too is Yours. 

In vain are Numbers, or persuasive Speech, 

What Poets write, or what the Pastors teach, 



58 The Poems op Anne 

Till You, who make, again repair the Breach. 

For when to Shades of Death our Joys are fled, 

When for a loss, like This, our Tears are shed. 

None can revive the Heart, but who can raise the Dead. 

But yet, my Muse, if thou hadst softer Verse 

Than e'er bewail'd the melancholy Herse ; 

If thou hadst Pow'r to dissipate the Gloom 70 

Inherent to the Solitary Tomb ; 

To rescue thence the Memory and Air 

Of what we lately saw so Fresh, so Fair; 

Then shou'd this Noble Youth thy Art engage 

To shew the Beauties of his blooming Age, 

The pleasing Light, that from his Eyes was cast, 

Like hasty Beams, too Vigorous to last; 

Where the warm Soul, as on the Confines, lay 

Ready for Flight, and for Eternal Day. 

Gently dispos'd his Nature shou'd be shown, 80 

And all the Mother's Sweetness made his Own. 

The Father's Likeness was but faintly seen, 

As ripen'd Fruits are figur'd by the Green. 

Nor cou'd we hope, had he fulfill'd his Days, 

He shou'd have reach'd Weymouth's unequal'd Praise. 

Still One distinguish'd Plant each Lineage shews. 

And all the rest beneath it's Stature grows. 

Of Tidly's Race but He possess'd the Tongue, 

And none like Julius from the Ccesars sprung. 

Next, in his harmless Sports he shou'd be drawn 90 

Urging his Courser, o'er the flow'ry Lawn; 

Sprightly Himself, as the enliven'd Game, 

Bold in the Chace, and full of gen'rous Flame; 

Yet in the Palace, Tractable and Mild, 

Perfect in all the Duties of a Child; 

Which fond reflection pleases, whilst it pains. 

Like penetrating Notes of sad Harmonious Strains. 



Countess of Winchilsea 59 

Selected Friendships timely he began, 

And siezed in Youth that best Delight of Man, 

Leaving a growing Race to mourn his End, 100 

Their earliest and their Ages promised Friend. 

But far away alas! that Prospect moves. 

Lost in the Clouds, like distant Hills and Groves, 

Whilst with encreasing Steps we all pursue 

What Time alone can bring to nearer View, 

That Future State, which Darkness yet involves. 

Known but by Death, which ev'ry Doubt resolves. 



TO THE PAINTER OF AN ILL-DRAWN PICTURE OF 
CLEONE, THE HONORABLE MRS. THYNNE 

Sooner I'd praise a Cloud which Light beguiles. 
Than thy rash hand which robs this Face of Smiles; 
And does that sweet and pleasing Air controul. 
Which to us paints the fair Cleone's Soul. 
'Tis vain to boast of Rules or labour'd Art ; 
I miss the Look that captivates my Heart, 
Attracts my Love, and tender Thoughts inspires; 
Nor can my Breast be warm'd by common Fires ; 
Nor can Ardelia love but where she first admires. 
Like Jupiter's, thy Head was sure in Pain 10 

When this Virago struggl'd in thy Brain; 
And strange it is, thou hast not made her wield 
A mortal Dart, or penetrating Shield, 
Giving that Hand of disproportion' d size 
The Pow'r, of which thou hast disarm'd her Eyes: 
As if, like Amazons, she must oppose, 
And into Lovers force her vanquish'd Foes. 
Had to Theanor thus her Form been shown 
To gain her Heart, he had not lost his own ; 
Nor, by the gentlest Bands of Human Life, 20 



60 The Poems of Anne 

At once secur'd the Mistress and the Wife. 

For still Cleone's Beauties are the same, 

And what first lighten'd, still upholds his Flame. 

Fain his Compassion wou'd thy Works approve, 

Were pitying thee consistent with his Love, 

Or with the Taste which Italy has wrought 

In his refin'd and daily heightened Thought, 

Where Poetry, or Painting find no place, 

Unless performed with a superior Grace. 

Cou'd but my Wish some Influence infuse, 30 

Ne'er shou'd the Pencil, or the Sister-Muse 

Be try'd by those who easily excuse: 

But strictest Censors shou'd of either judge. 

Applaud the Artist, and despise the Drudge. 

Then never wou'd thy Colours have debas'd 

Cleone's Features, and her Charms defac'd: 

Nor had my Pen (more subject to their Laws) 

Assay'd to vindicate her Beauty's Cause. 

A rigid Fear had kept us both in Awe, 

Nor I compos'd, nor thou presum'd to draw; 40 

But in Cleone viewing with Surprize 

That Excellence, to which we ne'er cou'd rise, 

By less attempts we safely might have gain'd 

That humble Praise which neither has obtain' d. 

Since to thy Shadowings, or my ruder Verse, 

It is not giv'n to shew, or to rehearse 

What Nature in Cleone's Face has writ, 

A soft Endearment, and a chearful Wit, 

That all-subduing, that enliv'ning Air 

By which, a sympathizing Joy we share, 50 

For who forbears to smile, when smiFd on by the Fair? 



Countess of Winchilsea 61 

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE COUNTESS OF 
HARTFORD, 

with her volume of Poems 
Of sleepless nights, and days with cares o'ercast, " 
Accept the fruits, tho' far beneath your taste; 
Yet look with favour on Ardelia's muse. 
And what your father cherished, still excuse. 
Whenever style or fancy in them shines. 
Conclude his praise gave spirit to those lines: 
So deep his judgment, so acute his wit, 
No critic liv'd, but did to him submit. 
From his your gentle nature does proceed ; 
Then partial be, like him, while here you read; 
Who could forgive the errors of a friend. 
But knew no bounds, when prompted to commend. 

UPON THE DEATH OF SIR WILLIAM TWISDEN 

Cou'd Rivers weep (as somtimes Poets dream) 

Cou'd neigh'bring Hills our sorrows know. 

And thoughtlesse Flocks, and faiding Flowers, 

Droop o're the pastures, and beneath the showers, 

To sympathize with Man, and answer to his Woe; 

Now, shou'd the Medway's fruitfull stream. 

In broaken drops, disolve away, 

And pay in tears, her Tribute to the sea ; 

Now shou'd the Flocks, forgett to thrive, 

Nor wou'd th' ensuing blasted Spring 10 

One purple Violet revive. 

One fragrant Odour bring; 

Now, by those Eccho's, which return'd his Name 

When by the loud prevailing voice 

Calld to the Senate, by his Country's choice, 

Twisden amongst their Rocks, and deep recesses came; 



62 The Poems of Anne 

Now, shou'd by them, tli' unwelcome news be spread, 
O're all th' extended, mournfull Land, 
O're all the coasts, o're all the Kentish strand. 
That Twisden is no more, their Matchlesse Patriot's 
dead. 20 

2 

But oh! in vain, things void of sence, we call. 

In vain, implore the murmuring sound 

Of hollow groans, from underneath the ground; 

Or court the loud laments, of some steep water's fall; 

On things innaninate, [sic] wou'd force, 

Some share of our divided greif. 

Whilst Nature ( unconcern' d for our relief) 

Persues her settl'd path, her fixt, and steaddy course, 

Leaving those ills, which Providence allows 

To check our Pleasures, and contract our Brows, 30 

Freely to act their uncontrouled part, 

Within the center of the human breast; 

There, every lighter folly, to molest, i 

And fill with anxious thoughts, the sad, awaken'd heart; I 

From whence alone proceed those gath'ring clouds 

Which euery outward beauty shrouds; 

From whence alone, those sad complaints ascend. 

Which pittying Echo's seem to lend; 

And when through weeping Eyes, the world we view. 

The ancient Flood we to ourselues renew, 40 

Then hasty mine seizes all around; 

All things to desolation tend. 

All seems to dye, with a departed Friend, 

The Earth unpeopl'd seems, and all again is drown'd, 

3 

Such were our thoughts, so with each Mind it far'd, 
When first th' unhappy news we heard. 
When told alas ! that Twisden was expir'd, 



Countess of Winohilsea 63 

Whom all lament, whom liuing, all admir'd; 

For in his breast, were such perfections sown, 

Such numerous excellencies plac'd, 50 

That every man, with different tallents, grac'd, 

Found somthing that improv'd, or answer'd to his own. 

He, whose lou'd Country, was his cheifest care. 

Might find her very Archives there, 

Her ancient Stattutes, in their first dessign. 

Prerogative, and Priviledge to joyn. 

The perfect draught of all-preserving Law, 
(Which, whilst unbyast hands cou'd round us draw, 

Rebel, nor Tyrant, cou'd encroach, 

Not that aspire, nor this extend too much ; 60 

None, cou'd beyond his happy Limmit goe. 

Not man deprav'd, nor Demon from below 

Cou'd leap the hallow'd bound, or passe the magick Line) 

Well did we in our far applauded Kent, 

Whilst Pious, Wise, Heroick, and refin'd. 

Whilst these strong Rayes, of our old Vertue shin'd. 

Make him our choice, the Whole to represent; 

The worthyest pattern of the publick Mind, 

Who, when alas! we more Fanatick grew, 

A heavyer Immage of our Country drew 70 

(Like to a fault, in every altered part) 

A rough ill wrought Dessign, a work of Flemish Art. 

4 

Those, whom a curious search had led 

Where the fam'd Tiber, from his plenteous bed 

Such frequent Treasures does unfold. 

As down his Streames since Csesars days have roled 

T'ubraid new Rome, with wonders of the old, 

With him their great Ideas, might renew; 

Enlighten' d more, and more amaz'd 



64: The Poems of Anne 

Then when at first (with unexperienced view) 80 

On those stupenduous Works, they (lesse assisted) gaz'd 
With Him, who rested not alone 
In Arts, that (more then did the fabl'd fire) 
Give Painting breath, and do with life inspire 
The new created Rock, the Man of pollish'd Stone; 
But justly weigh'd (in his capacious mind) 
Through ev'ry Age, her past, and present state, 
What rais'd those Arts, what made Rome once so great, 
And by what failing steps, now ruin'd, and declin'd; 
All useful knowledge, thence he brought, 90 

And 'gainst their dull, mistaken maxims, taught 
(Let the constrain'd, severe Italian see) 
A man dessign'd for Wisdom's last degree 
Might wear an open face, with a behaviour free. 

5 

The soften'd Courtier, might in him discern 
(What to himself, 't'had cost much pains to learn, 

And was att last, but with dissembling worn) 

A pleasing, and a sweet Adresse, 

Beyond what Affectation, can expresse, 

Good breeding lesse acquir'd, then with his temper born. 

So was he vers'd, in that allusive Art 101 

Which dying Israel, did the first impart, 
(When he the Royal Lyon did bestow 

On Him, from whom all sovereign Rule shou'd flow, 

Rightly dispos'd the Wolf, and loosen' d Hind, 

And Blazon'd every coat, he to each Tribe assign' d.) 

That unto Him, all Families were known; 

Their distant branches, and their wide extent. 

Their Ancient rise, or more renown'd descent; 

Modestly Silent, only of his own, 110 

But Silence, cou'd not that Extraction wrong, 

Which all besides confess'd, which Kent has born so long. 



Countess of Winchilsea 65 

6 
With Him, we the Traditions loose, 
Of great, and of Illustrious Men, 
Which his Discourse, reviv'd to us again. 
(Their unrecorded Graces, did disclose. 
Their moving Gestures, their engaging looks, 
Of life, the ornamental parts; 
The powerfull spells, that influence our hearts. 
Their secret motives, and their apt replies, 120 

Which ignorance, or brevity denies 
To be at large enrowl'd, or registered in Books) 
With Him they fell, though many years before. 
The World might their departed breath deplore, 
'Tis now, they to Oblivion are resign'd. 
Or some short page of History confin'd, 
'Tis now they cease to live, and now, they are no more. 
So nicely cou'd he all retain. 
Of such a memory possest, 

So undisturb'd might every subject rest, 130 

Or range that ample store-house of the brain, 
Where ancient learning early was convey'd, 
The solid, and the usefull ground 
Where all the modern was profusely found, 
Where, what our own, or neighb'ring Witts cou'd write. 
What his yett clearer thoughts, cou'd to themselves 

endite, 
Was in such beauteous order laid. 
As made the Symetrie entire. 
As did the whole, harmoniously inspire. 
Whilst all, was in the propperest terms expresst, 140 

When to our pleas'd attention still made known. 
In chosen words, that best adorn'd his own, 
Or in the numerous Tongues, of various Countrys 

dresst. 



66 The Poems of Anne 

7 

How, had we su'd so great a Life to save 

From yet descending to th' unactive Grave; 

How, had the loud united Prayers 

Of that best Church, the object of his cares, 
(The object of his still a waken'd thought. 

For which so well he spoke, so well his Father wrote) 

Imploring at the Throne above 150 

With unresisted force, for his continnuance strove ; 
j^\Had not wise Heaven (our clamours to prevent) 

So secretly the fatal message sent, 
(Bid the light Essense his swift wings display, 

Nor his Commission to survey, 
'Till passt the bounds of all th' Angellick Host, 

Distant alike, from our benighted Coast, 

Till sail'd into the midd'st of the Etherial way) 

Least, that if either World, shou'd know 

What sadly was decreed, for ours below, 160 

(In favour of the happyer Skies.) 

Some pious heat might grow, 

Some holy strife might rise. 

The Church Triumphant, to encrease her throng, 

Might urge, that he had stay'd too long. 

Whilst the afflicted Militant, might plead 

Of such support, her more incessant need, 

Repeat her passt distresse, and doubts of future woe. 

Least that Himself, had in a streight been known, 

Strugg'ling betwixt our Interest, and his own, 170 

For whom 'twas easily resolv'd. 

The better choice, to be with haste disolv'd; 

Yett Charity prevailing in the strife, 

For us, he might have ask'd a longer Life, 

Rightly to act, in his appointed Place, 
(Of Freedom mindfull, and that generous Race 



Countess of Winchilsea 67 

Which the (too pow'full) Norman once withstood, 
Beneath the covert of a moving Wood) 
Unconquer'd still, 't'have kept his native Land, 
Help'd to disperse her Cares, and make her fears disband. 



Such, were His Actions; such, his just Dessigns; 181 

But far too weak, are these imperfect Lines, 
(Th' unskill'd attempts of an inferiour Muse) 

To paint a Mind, so exquisitely bright; 

To sett such Vertues, in their noblest light. 

Or in our anxious greif, pathetick thoughts infuse. 
No lesse Applause, no lesse exalted Verse, 

Then once adorn'd our boasted Sydney's Hearse, 

Shou'd to his Caracter, do equal right; 

Shou'd of this second Astrophel, endite, 
"As much the Poets Friend, as much the Worlds delight." 

ENQUIRY AFTER PEACE 
A Fragment 

Peace ! where art thou to be found? 

Where, in all the spacious Round, 

May thy Footsteps be pursu'd? 

Where may thy calm Seats be view'd? 

On some Mountain dost thovi lie. 

Serenely near the ambient Sky, 

Smiling at the Clouds below. 

Where rough Storms and Tempests grow? 

Or, in some retired Plain, 

Undisturb'd dost thou remain? 10 

Where no angry Whirlwinds pass, 

Where no Floods oppress the Grass. 

High above, or deep below, 



68 The Poems of Anne 

Fain I thy Retreat won'd know. 

Fain I thee alone wou'd find, 

Balm to my o'er-weary'd Mind. 

Since what here the World enjoys, 

Or our Passions most employs, 

Peace opposes, or destroys. 

Pleasure's a tumultuous thing, 20 

Busy still, and still on Wing; 

Flying swift, from place to place. 

Darting from each beauteous Face; 

From each strongly mingled Bowl 

Through th'inflam'd and restless Soul. 

Sov'reign Pow'r who fondly craves. 

But himself to Pomp enslaves; 

Stands the Envy of Mankind, 

Peace, in vain, attempts to find. 

Thirst of Wealth no Quiet knows, 30 

But near the Death-bed fiercer grows; 

Wounding Men with secret Stings, 

For Evils it on Others brings. 

War who not discreetly shuns. 

Thorough Life the Gauntlet runs. 

Swords, and Pikes, and Waves, and Flames, 

Each their Stroke against him aims. 

Love (if such a thing there be) 

Is all Despair, or Extasie. 

Poetry's the feav'rish Fit, 40 

Th' o'erflowing of unbounded Wit. &c. 

THE PETITION FOR AN ABSOLUTE RETREAT 

Inscribed to the Right Hon^^^ Catharine Countess of Thanet, 
mentioned in the Poem under tlie Name of Arminda 

Give me O indulgent Fate! 
Give me yet, before I Dye, 



Countess of Winchilsea 69 

A sweet, but absolute Retreat, 
'Mongst Paths so lost, and Trees so high, 
That the World may ne'er invade, 
Through such Windings and such Shade, 
My unshaken Liberty. 

No Intruders thither come! 
Who visit, but to be from home; 
None who their vain Moments pass, 10 

Only studious of their Glass, 
News, that charm to listning Ears; 
That false Alarm to Hopes and Fears; 
That common Theme for every Fop, 
From the Statesman to the Shop, 
In those Coverts ne'er be spread, 
Of who's Deceas'd, or who's to Wed, 
Be no Tidings thither brought, 
But Silent, as a Midnight Thought, 
Where the World may ne'er invade, 20 

Be those Windings, and that Shade: 

Courteous Fate! afford me there 
A Table spread without my Care, 
With what the neighb'ring Fields impart, 
Whose Cleanliness be all it's Art, 
When, of old, the Calf was drest, 
(Tho' to make an Angel's Feast) 
In the plain, unstudied Sauce 
Nor Treufle, nor Morillia was; 
Nor cou'd the mighty Patriarch's Board 30 

One far-fetch'd Ortolane afford. 
Courteous Fate, then give me there 
Only plain, and wholesome Fare. 
Fruits indeed (wou'd Heaven bestow) 
All, that did in Eden grow. 



70 The Poems of Anne 

All, but the Forbidden Tree, 

Wou'd be coveted by me; 

Grapes, with Juice so crouded up, 

As breaking thro' the native Cup; 

Figs (yet growing) candy' d o'er, 40 

By the Sun's attracting Pow'r; 

Cherries, with the downy Peach, 

All within my easie Reach; 

Whilst creeping near the humble Ground, 

Shou'd the Strawberry be found 

Springing wheresoe'er I stray'd. 

Thro' those Windings and that Shade. 

For my Garments; let them be 
What may with the Time agree; 
Warm, when Phoebus does retire, 50 

And is ill-supply'd by Fire: 
But when he renews the Year, 
And verdant all the Fields appear; 
Beauty every thing resumes. 
Birds have dropt their Winter-Plumes; 
When the Lilly full display'd, 
Stands in purer White array'd. 
Than that Vest, which heretofore 
The Luxurious Monarch wore. 
When from Salem'' s Gates he drove, 60 

To the soft Retreat of Love, 
Lebanon'' s all burnish'd House, 
And the dear Egyptian S[)ouse. 
Cloath me, Fate, tho' not so Gay; 
Cloath me light, and fresh as May: 
In the Fountains let me view 
All my Habit cheap and new; 
Such as, when sweet Zephyrs fly. 



Countess of Winohilsea 71 

With their Motions may comply ; 
Gently waving, to express 70 

UnaflPected Carelesness: 
No Perfumes have there a Part, 
Borrow'd from the Chy mists Art; 
But such as rise from flow'ry Beds, 
Or the falling Jasmin Sheds! 
'Twas the Odour of the Field, 
Esau^s rural Coat did yield, 
That inspir'd his Father's Pray'r, 
For Blessings of the Earth and Air: 
Of Gums, or Pouders had it smelt ; 80 

The Supplanter, then unfelt. 
Easily had been descry'd. 
For One that did in Tents abide; 
For some beauteous Handmaids Joy, 
And his Mother's darling Boy. 
Let me then no Fragrance wear. 
But what the Winds from Gardens bear, 
In such kind, surprizing Gales, 
As gather'd from Fidentici's Vales, 
All the Flowers that in them grew; 90 

Which intermixing, as they flew. 
In wreathen Garlands dropt agen. 
On LucuUus, and his Men; 
Who, chear'd by the victorious Sight, 
Trebl'd Numbers put to Flight. 
Let me, when I must be fine. 
In such natural Colours shine; 
Wove, and painted by the Sun, 
Whose resplendent Rays to shun. 
When they do too fiercely beat, 100 

Let me find some close Retreat, 
Where they have no Passage made. 
Thro' those Windings, and that Shade. 



72 The Poems of Anne 

Give me there (since Heaven has shown 

It was not Good to be alone) 

A Partner suited to my Mind, 

Solitary, pleas'd and kind; 

Who, partially, may something see 

Preferr'd to all the World in me ; 

Slighting, by my humble Side, 110 

Fame and Splendor, Wealth and Pride. 

When but Two the Earth possest, 
'Twas their happiest Days, and best; 

They by Business, nor by Wars, 

They by no Domestick Cares, 

From each other e'er were drawn. 

But in some Grove, or flow'ry Lawn, 

Spent the swiftly flying Time, 

Spent their own, and Nature's Prime, 

In Love; that only Passion given 120 

To perfect Man, whilst Friends with Heaven. 

Rage, and Jealousie, and Hate, 

Transports of his fallen State, 
(When by Satan'' s Wiles betray'd) 

Fly those Windings, and that Shade! 

Thus from Crouds, and Noise remov'd, 
Let each Moment be improv'd; 
Every Object still produce. 
Thoughts of Pleasure, and of Use: 
When some River slides away, 130 

To encrease the boundless Sea; 
Think we then, how Time do's haste, 
To grow Eternity at last. 
By the Willows, on the Banks, 
Gather'd into social Ranks, 
Playing with the gentle Winds, 



Countess of Winchilsea 73 

Strait the Boughs, and smooth the Rinds, 
Moist each Fibre, and each Top, 
Wearing a luxurious Crop, 

Let the time of Youth be shown, 140 

The time alas! too soon outgrown; 
Whilst a lonely stubborn Oak, 
Which no Breezes can provoke. 
No less Gusts persuade to move. 
Than those, which in a Whirlwind drove, 
Spoil'd the old Fraternal Feast, 
And left alive but one poor Guest; 
Rivell'd the distorted Trunk, 
Sapless Limbs all bent, and shrunk, 
Sadly does the Time presage, 150 

Of our too near approaching Age. 
When a helpless Vine is found, 
Unsupported on the Ground, 
Careless all the Branches spread, 
Subject to each haughty Tread, 
Bearing neither Leaves, nor Fruit, 
Living only in the Root; 
Back reflecting let me say. 
So the sad Ardelia lay ; 

Blasted by a Storm of Fate, 160 

Felt, thro' all the British State; 
Fall'n, neglected, lost, forgot. 
Dark Oblivion all her Lot; 
Faded till Armindci's Love, 
(Guided by the Pow'rs above) 
Warm'd anew her drooping Heart, 
And Life diffus'd thro' every Part; 
Mixing Words, in wise Discourse, 
Of such Weight and wond'rous Force, 
As could all her Sorrows charm, 170 



74 The Poems of Anne 

And transitory Ills disarm; 
Chearing the delightful Day, 
When dispos'd to be more Gay, 
With Wit, from an unmeasured Store, 
To Woman ne'er allow'd before. 
What Nature, or refining Art, 
All that Fortune cou'd impart. 
Heaven did to Ai-minda send; 
Then gave her for ArdelicCs Friend: 
To her Cares the Cordial drop, 180 

Which else had overflow'd the Cup. 
So, when once the Son of Jess, 
Every Anguish did oppress. 
Hunted by all kinds of Ills, 
Like a Partridge on the Hills; 
Trains were laid to catch his Life, 
Baited with a Royal Wife, 
From his House, and Country torn. 
Made a Heathen Prince's Scorn; 
Fate, to answer all these Harms, 190 

Threw a Friend into his Arms. 
Friendship still has been design'd. 
The Support of Human-kind; 
The safe Delight, the useful Bliss, 
The next World's Happiness, and this. 
Give then, O indulgent Fate! 
Give a Friend in that Retreat 
(Tho' withdrawn from all the rest) 
Still a Clue, to reach my Breast. 
Let a Friend be still convey'd 200 

Thro' those Windings, and that Shade! 

Where, may I remain secure. 
Waste, in humble Joys and pure, 



Countess of Winchilsea 75 

A Life, that can no Envy yield; 

Want of Affluence my Shield. 

Thus, had Crassiis been content, 

When from Marius Rage he went, 

With the Seat that Fortune gave, 

The commodious ample Cave, 

Form'd, in a divided Rock, 210 

By some mighty Earthquake's Shock, 

Into Rooms of every Size, 

Fair, as Art cou'd e'er devise. 

Leaving, in the marble Roof, 
('Gainst all Storms and Tempests proof) 

Only Passage for the Light, 

To refresh the chearful Sight, 

Whilst Three Sharers in his Fate, 

On th' Escape with Joy dilate, 

Beds of Moss their Bodies bore, 220 

Canopy'd with Ivy o'er; 

Rising Springs, that round them play'd, 

O'er the native Pavement stray'd; 

When the Hour arriv'd to Dine, 

Various Meats, and sprightly Wine, 

On some neighb'ring Cliff they spy'd; 

Every Day a-new supply'd 

By a Friend's entrusted Care; 

Had He still continu'd there. 

Made that lonely wond'rous Cave 230 

Both his Palace, and his Grave; 

Peace and Rest he might have found, 
(Peace and Rest are under Ground) 

Nor have been in that Retreat, 

Fam'd for a Proverbial Fate; 

In pursuit of Wealth been caught. 

And punish'd with a golden Draught. 



76 The Poems of Anne 

Nor liad He, who Crowds cou'd blind, 
Whisp'ring with a snowy Hind, 
Made 'em think that from above, 24:0 

(Like the great Impostor's Dove) 
Tydings to his Ears she brought, 
Rules by which he march'd and fought, 
After SjKu'u he had o'er-run, 
Cities sack'd, and Battles won, 
Drove Rome's Consuls from the Field, 
Made her darling Pompey yield, 
At a fatal, treacherous Feast, 
Felt a Dagger in his Breast; 
Had he his once-pleasing Thought 250 

Of Solitude to Practice brought; 
Had no wild Ambition sway'd; 
In those Islands had he stay'd, 
Justly call'd the Seats of Rest, 
Truly Fortunate, and Blest, 
By the ancient Poets giv'n 
As their best discover'd Heav'n. 
Let me then, indulgent Fate! 
Let me still, in my Retreat, 

From all roving Thoughts be freed, 260 

Or Aims, that may Contention breed: 
Nor be my Endeavours led 
By Goods, that perish with the Dead! 
Fitly might the Life of Man 
Be indeed esteem'd a Span, 
If the present Moment were 
Of Delight his only Share ; 
If no other Joys he knew 
Than what round about him grew: 
But as those, who Stars wou'd trace 270 

From a subterranean Place, 



Countess of Winchilsea 77 

Through some Engine lift their Eyes 

To the outward, glorious Skies; 

So th' immortal Spirit may, 

When descended to our Clay, 

From a rightly govern'd Frame 

View the Height, from whence she came ; 

To her Paradise be caught, 

And things unutterable taught. 

Give me then, in that Retreat, 280 

Give me, O indulgent Fate! 

For all Pleasures left behind, 

Contemplations of the Mind. 

Let the Fair, the Gay, the Vain 

Courtship and Applause obtain; 

Let th' Ambitious rule the Earth; 

Let the giddy Fool have Mirth ; 

Give the Epicure his Dish, 

Ev'ry one their sev'ral Wish ; 

Whilst my Transports I employ 290 

On that more extensive Joy, 

When all Heaven shall be survey'd 

From those Windings and that Shade. 

TO THE RT HON'^^^ THE LADY C. TUFTON 

Upon Addressing to me the first letter that ever she ivritt at the 

age of 

To write in Verse has been my pleasing choice 
When great Arminda's kindnesse urg'd my voice 
Or Madam when in softer Notes I sung 
The sweet Serena beautifuU and yong 
Whil'st euery Muse did chearfully attend 
And lent their aid Serena to commend 
To speak what in that tender age became 
Your blooming Beauty then your cheifest Fame. 



78 The Poems of Anne 

Now to secure me from your skillfull sight 

In borrow'd caracters disguis'd I write 10 

Nor dare my hand or meaner stile expose 

Without a Verse, aw'd by your smoother Prose. 

But sheltered in an Art unlearn'd as yett 

Take this aduantage of your growing witt, 

To trust to Numbers e're you know their faults 

The strange delight of your Ardelia's thoughts. 

When I with sweet surprise that Letter view'd 

Which to myself such welcome favour shew'd 

Who yett cou'd scarcely take itt for a truth 

That such perfection came from so much youth 20 

And that Arminda shou'd not only give 

Those Graces to her Race which in her Hue 

But thus deriues her ornamental parts 

Whil'st you inheritt her acquired Arts 

And from you Madam now we look to see 

Lines fine and finish' d to the same decree 

As those Her favour oft conferr's on mee. 

Yours too apply'd to me do also seem 

To spring from the rich stock of her esteem 

As if all those her wisdom condescends 30 

To make her own must be Serena's Friends. 

And by such gentle and engaging bands 

Resign their hearts to your alluring hands. 

Mine I submitt but great and louely Maid! 

Remember when that Tribute I haue paid 

That not your Station nor each ripen'd Charm 

Th' admiring world which shall about you swarm, 

The gifts of Fortune equal to your Birth, 

My sinking Spirits or your prosperous Mirth, 

Nor the vast distance betwixt Youth and Age, 40 

Must from this happy kindnesse disengage. 

So loues Arminda where she once has lou'd, 



Countess of Winchilsea 79 

So your great Father whom her charms had mou'd 

Has this to all his steadfast virtues joyn'd 

That still that Loue adorns his constant mind. 

Your Friendship Madam now your Pen declares 

In sense and caracters beyond your years 

Which first dear pledge shall in my hand remain 

A lasting Honour whil'st I life retain 

Whose utmost Date shall find you still possest 50 

Of what those Lines haue grafted in my breast 

Whil'st none that your Ardelia cou'd command 

Ere fill'd my paper or employ'd my hand 

To such advantage as these closing few 

Owning what is so rightfully their due 

My self a servant to the Tuftons name 

And sharer in their Joyes for your encreasing Fame. 

A POEM FOR THE BIRTH-DAY OF THE RIGHT HON^'-^ 
THE LADY CATHARINE TUFTON 

Occasioned by sight of some Verses upon that Subject for the 
preceding Year, compos'd by no Eminent Hand 

'Tis fit Serena shou'd be sung. 
High-born Serena, Fair and Young, 
Shou'd be of ev'ry Muse and Voice 
The pleasing, and applauded Choice. 
But as the Meanest of the Show 
Do First in all Processions go: 
So, let my Steps pursue that Swain 
The humblest of th' inspired Train ; 
Whose well-meant Verse did just appear, 
To lead on the preceding Year: 10 

So let my Pen, the next in Fame, 
Now wait on fair Serena's Name ; 
The second Tribute gladly pay, 
And hail this blest returning Day. 



80 The Poems of Anne 

But let it not attempt to raise 

Or rightly speak Serena's Praise: 

Since with more ease we might declare 

How Great her Predecessors were; 

How Great that more distinguish'd Peer, 

To whom she owes her Being here; 20 

In whom our Britain lets us see 

What once they were, and still shou'd be; 

As, when the earliest Race was drown' d, 

Some Patterns, from amongst them found, 

Were kept to shew succeeding Times 

Their Excellence without their Crimes: 

More easily we might express 

What Vertues do her Mother dress ; 

What does her Form and Mind adorn. 

Of whom th' engaging Nymph was born ; 30 

What Piety, what generous Love, 

Does the enlarged Bosom move 

Of Her, whose Fav'rite she appears, 

Who more than as a Niece endears. 

Such full Perfections obvious lie, 

And strike, at first, a Poet's Eye. 

Deep Lines of Honour all can hit, 

Or mark out a superior Wit; 

Consummate Goodness all can show, 

And where such Graces shine below: 40 

But the more tender Strokes to trace, 

T' express the Promise of a Face, 

When but the Dawnings of the Mind 

We from an Air unripen'd find; 

Which alt'ring, as new Moments rise, 

The Pen or Pencil's Art defies; 

When Flesh and Blood in Youth appears, 

Polish'd like what our Marble wears ; 



Countess of Winchilsea 81 

Fresh as that Shade of op'ning Green, 

Which first upon our Groves is seen; 50 

Enliven'd by a harmless Fire, 

And brighten'd by each gay Desire; 

These nicer Touches wou'd demand 

A Coiuley's or a Waller's Hand, 

T'explain, with undisputed Art, 

What 'tis affects th'enlighten'd Heart, 

When ev'ry darker Thought gives way. 

Whilst blooming Beauty we survey; 

To shew how All, that's soft and sweet, 

Does in the fair Sekena meet; 60 

To tell us, with a sure Presage, 

The Charms of her maturer Age. 

When Hothfeild shall (as heretofore 

From its far-sought and virtuous Store 

It Families of great Renown 

Did with illustrious Hymens crown) 

When Hothfeild shall such Treasure know, 

As fair Seeena to bestow: 

Then shou'd some Muse of loftier Wine: 

The Triumphs of that Season sing; 70 

Describe the Pains, the Hopes, the Fears 

Of noble Youths, th' ambitious Cares 

Of Fathers, the long-fram'd Design, 

To add such Splendour to their Line, 

Whilst all shall strive for such a Bride 

So Educated, and Ally'd. 

ON THE LORD DUNDEE 

It must not be; nor can the grave 
Graham, your mighty acts conceal; 
Oblivion, never can prevail 
Against the Loyal, and the brave. 



82 The Poems of Anne 

Fame, shall the gloomy Tyrant disposess, 

And bear you, on her golden wings, 

You, that have borne the cause of Kings 

To the most distant parts, of the wide universe. 

All, the yong Grecian Conquerer gain'd, 

All, that his own, he e^re could rate, 10 

In spite of accedents, or fate, 

Already is by you obtain'd. 

A treacherous hand his life unty'd; 

And meaner men, his world devide; 

But Fame, like you, he grasp'd, and after life, retain' d. 

Already, in your name, was shown 

Deeds, second only to your own. 

But, as if to your race 'twere due, 

Due, as succession to our Kings, 

Still to be made for glorious things, 20 

Montrose's spirit's doubl'd upon you. 

No sooner can the Nation want, 

But Fate, does still a Graham grant; 

And storms, and tumults seems to raise 

To build them Pyramids of praise. 

O Scotland! never more, be thou 

A cold, unfruitfull Country nam'd, 

But, be for heat, and product fam'd; 

Not such as answers to the plow. 

But such, as Heroes can produce, 30 

For thine, and for thy Monark's use. 

To nobler ends, thou doest thy heat bestow. 

Not to make corn, and wine, but valiant wariers grow. 

No land, but did to you impart 
Dundee, what excellent she held, 
To fitt you for the Court, or feild. 
France, lent you all her gracefull arts. 



Countess of Winchilsea 83 

That who e're saw you, wou'd have thought 

A frame so fine, so nicely wrought, 

Was only made to conquer hearts. 40 

Courage, your native country gave, 

With such a soul, as soon shou'd take 

The best impressions Art could make: 

Whilst with her sister, England joyn'd 

With learning to enrich your mind. 

Italy made you wise, and grave. 

For Strattagem, and council fitt, 

Heighten'd your conduct, and your witt, 

Inspir'd her soft poetick fires, 

And gave you o're the muses land 50 

Such vast, such absolute command, 

As suited your refin'd desires. 

So was you made to be belov'd, 

So born, so bred, and so improv'd. 

That when Mars arm'd you, for wars fatal toile, 

Venus, stood sadly by, and sweetly wept the while. 

Unequal numbers, cou'd not make you fear, 
Unequal numbers, might oppresse, 
But cou'd not make your courage lesse. 
Before your troops, thrice to your foes 60 

One single life, you did expose ; 
Oh ! had you been of that, as sure 
As Fame, and Conquest to procure! 
But greedy Death, envious that they, 
Alone, shou'd share the glorious day, 
Resolv'd, to make his part appear 
In pomp, and solemn trophies drest, 
Magnificent above the rest. 

And make the mighty cheif , become his noble Prey. 
So great Gustavus, tho' with Conquest crown'd, 70 



84 The Poems of Anne 

Had Cypresse, with his Lawrells wound, 
And slept like Graham, on the field he wonn. 
When the great businesse of the day, was done. 

THE CHANGE 

Poor River, now thou'rt almost dry. 

What Nymph, or Swain, will near thee lie? 

Since brought, alas! to sad Decay, 

What Flocks, or Herds, will near thee stay ? 

The Swans, that sought thee in thy Pride, 

Now on new Streams forgetful ride : 

And Fish, that in thy Bosom lay, 

Chuse in more prosp'rous Floods to play. 

All leave thee, now thy Ebb appears. 

To waste thy sad Remains in Tears; 10 

Nor will thy mournful Murmurs heed. 

Fly, wretched Stream, with all thy speed. 

Amongst those solid Rocks thy Griefs bestow ; 

For Friends, like those alas! thou ne'er did'st know. 

And thou, poor Sun! that sat'st on high; 
But late, the Splendour of the Sky ; 
What Flow'r tho' by thy Influence born. 
Now Clouds prevail, will towards thee turn? 
Now Darkness sits upon thy Brow, 
What Persian Votary will bow ? 20 

What River will her Smiles reflect, 
Now that no Beams thou can'st direct? 
By watry Vapours overcast. 
Who thinks upon thy Glories past? 
If present Light, nor Heat we get. 
Unheeded thou may'st rise, and set. 
Not all the past can one Adorer keep. 
Fall, wretched Sun, to the more faithful Deep. 



Countess of Winchilsea 85 

Nor do thou, lofty Structure! boast, 
Since undermin'd by Time and Frost: 30 

Since thou canst no Reception give. 
In untrod Meadows thou may'st live. 
None from his ready Road will turn, 
With thee thy wretched Change to mourn. 
Not the soft Nights, or chearful Days 
Thou hast bestow'd, can give thee Praise. 
No lusty Tree that near thee grows, 
(Tho' it beneath thy Shelter rose) 
Will to thy Age a Staff become. 
Fall, wretched Building! to thy Tomb. 40 

Thou, and thy painted Roofs, in Ruin mixt, 
Fall to the Earth, for That alone is fixt. 

The same, poor 31 an, the same must be 
Thy Fate, now Fortune frowns on thee. 
Her Favour ev'ry one pursues. 
And losing Her, thou all must lose. 
No Love, sown in thy prosperous Days, 
Can Fruit in this cold Season raise: 
No Benefit, by thee conferr'd. 

Can in this time of Storms be heard. 50 

All from thy troubl'd Waters run; 
Thy stooping Fabrick all Men shun. 
All do thy clouded Looks decline. 
As if thou ne'er did'st on them shine. 
O wretched Man! to other World's repair; 
For Faith and Gratitude are only there. 

UPON THE DEATH OF KING JAMES THE SECOND 

1 

If the Possession of Imperial sway 

Thou hads't by Death unhappy Prince resign'd 



86 The Poems of Anne 

And to a mournfull successour made way 

Whilst All was uncontested, All combin'd, 

How had the streets, how had the Palace rung. 

In praise of thy acknowledg'd Worth; 

What had our num'rous Writers then brought forth, 

What melancholly Dirges had they sung. 

What weeping Elegy's prepar'd. 

If not from loyal grief, yett to obtain reward, 10 

Thus is that Gift (which Heauen did sure bestow 

To elevate the hearts of Men 

And lead them to those Blissfull seats agen 

Whence all harmonious Sounds and lofty Numbers 

flow) 
Now, Mammon, turn'd thy slave to dig thy Mines below. 

2 
But Royal James though none shall pay this Verse 
Bred in a Land not honoured with thy Herse, 
But Boyal James who never shalt return 
To cheer those Hearts which did thy sorrows mourn, 
Who never shalt the Woes, the Wants, repair 20 

Which for thy sake have been thy Followers share, 
Though with thy latest Breath such Prospects fled 
And all who saw thee Dye now wish themselves as dead, 
Yett shall a free disinterested Muse 
In chosen Lines perform that Task 
Which does an abler Writer ask 
But abler Writers will the Work refuse. 
And where, alas 'twill but the Feather cost 
The noblest Subjects for the Pen are lost. 

3 

Else how wou'd the Poetick crew, 30 

Those publick Heralds of Immortal Fame 
Unto the present Times renew 



Countess op Winchilsea 87 

All which the Past did with such wonder view 
And down to future Ages wou'd Proclaim 
What future Ages scarse cou'd take for true 
When they describ'd Thee on the Stage of War 
Earlier than Caesar far 

And made Thee ere thy tenth accomplish'd year 
Undaunted in the Lists appear 

And martial Light' nings see and Martial Thunders 

hear 40 

Which CsBsar never prov'd nor his tenth Legion knew. 



Next had they shown Thee in the Galick Host 

Performing such stupenduous Things 

As influenc'd the Fates of Kings 

Whil'st the best General which the World cou'd boast 

Thought ready to resign his Breath 

Assur'd his Troops they shou'd not feel his Death 

If that Illustrious York wou'd fill th' important Post. 

Thus wou'd they Thy exalted valour raise 

By Turene form'd, and stamp'd with Turene's praise 50 

O're Seas and Lands (as Seas and Lands have seen 

Thee greatly Brave) that Fame had sounded been 

Which to the skies was borne in Opdam's fiery blaze. 

High o're th' Invading Fleet his vessel rose 

By Thy prevailing Batteries driven 

Which like a streaming Meteor dreadfull shows 

Now threat'ning from th' illuminated Air 

To all beneath itt Ruine and Dispair 

As Heathen Witts had said to haue inkindl'd Heaven 

Till down at length the Plague portended came 60 

And wrought such various Deaths that some must want 

a name. 
Oh mighty Prince, for here thy dark'ned Lott 



The Poems of Anne 



Must be in this Reverse of Sight forgott 

All must be Glorious whilst thy Youth we trace 

Whilst shelt'ring Waves shall Brittish Shores embrace 

Or whilst our Reccords shall haue place 

Where thy Rewards and Attributes are such 

As show noe Gratitude was thought too much 

For keeping England then, superiour to the Dutch. 

Whil'st These shall last no Envy shall deface 70 

Of that Tryumphant Day th' Aduantage and the Grace. 



Yett even in Youth War n'er was thy Delight 

Nor Led by Thee but in the Nations right 

Which well Asserted and the souldier paid 

The Honour rescu'd and the gainfull Trade 

The solid Buisnesse wisely done 

And each who shar'd the Generous Cause 

Possess'd too of the share that He had won 

The warrantable Spoiles the Fauour and Applause 

Again Commissions ceas'd and Arms apart were laid. 80 

So good Dictators fought for ancient Rome 

And brought not single Fame, but Peace and Plenty 

Home 
Nor bred new Strifes to keep that ample sway 
But to the Plough return'd cou'd chearfuUy Obey. 
So had our Charles (whilst Reigning) cause to own 

(The Pow'er recalled which his great Seal had shown) 
The readyest subject stood the next his Throne. 
Oh You who under James in fight were try'd, 
Who strove successfull by that Prince's side, 
Who've seen Him brave the Cannons angry breath 90 
For Brittan's Interest and Renown 
As if He had courted rather then her Crown 

(Which was His right of birth) to merit itt by Death 



Countess of Winchilsea 89 

Oil You who in His frequent Dangers stood 
And sought to fence them at th' expence of Blood 
Now lett your Teares a heavyer Tribute pay, 
Give the becoming Sorrow way 
Nor bring bad Paralells upon the Times 
By seeking through mistaken Feares 
To curb your Sighs or to conceal your Teares. 100 

Twas but in Nero's dayes that Sighs and Teares were 
crimes. 

6 

(As all must do) at Death's cold feet the Crown 
Him had you sure Enroll'd and justly with the Best 
Then Alfred's Piety had form'd his Praise 
His thoughtfull Nights compar'd and His assiduous 

Dayes. 
Then had that Providential care 
Which kept the Treasury full yett not the subject 

bare 
Unto our frugal Henry's been preferr'd 
Applauses of that Temp'rance had we heard 
By whose Example had excluded been 110 

What even Eliza's dayes brought in 
The wasting foul Excesse miscall'd Good-natured Sin. 



Weep ye Attendants who compos'd his Traine 
And no Observance spent in vain 
Nor ever with uneasy Feares 

Contracted needful Debts and doubted your Arrears 
All whom His Justice or his Bounty fed 
Now gratefull weep and mix the silent Dew 
(Which none will e're suspect untrue) 



90 The Poems of Anne 

With your embitter'd Draughts and since diminish'd 

Bread 120 

You who subordinate in Publick Cares 
For his Inspection model!' d the Affaires 
Remember still how easy Your Accesse 
No Pleasures kept him from your sight 
No late Debauch no Revel of the Night 
No distant slothfull Seat e're serv'd as a Recesse. 
Open to all but when the Seaman came 
Known by his Face and greeted by his Name 
Peculiar Smiles and Praises did impart 
To all his Prowesse and Desert 130 

All had his willing Hand, the Seaman had his Heart 
He born an Islander by Nature knew 
Her wooden walls her strength, her Guard the Naval 

Crew. 

8 

But draw the Vaile nor seek to paint that Grief 
Which knows no Bounds nor meditates Relief 
Maria weeps with unexhausted Teares 
No Look that Beauteous Face but sorrow wears 
And in those Eyes where Majesty was seen 
To warn Admirers and Declare the Queen 
Now only Reigns th' incurable Distresse 140 

Which Royal James thy f aithf uU Consort shows 
Who by Her different Grief, does too Confesse 
That now alas She the Distinction knows 
'Twixt Weeping for thy Losse or with Thee for thy Woes 
No more the Diadem attracts Her sight 
Held but by Reflection Bright 
Thoughts of returning Glory move no more 
Nor can She e're Receive what She Possess't before 
A Grave is All She with Her James can share 
And were itt not for What He left Her Care 150 



Countess of Winchilsea 91 

How soon wou'd She Descend and be His Consort There 
Pleas'd better in that Fourth and last Remove 
Securely by thy unmolested side 
From Life itts self an Exile to abide 
Then in th' experienc'd former Three 
Which yett she well sustain'd Accompanied by Thee 
Strong are the Bands of Death, but stronger those of 
Love. 

9 

Oh Brittan take this Wish before we cease 

May RightfuU Kings procure Thee lasting Peace 

And having Rul'd Thee to thy Own desire 160 

On thy Maternal Bosome late Expire 

Clos'd in that Earth, where they had Reign'd before 

Till States and Monarchies shall be no more 

Since in the Day of unapealing Doom 

Or King or Kingdom must Declare 

What the sad Chance or weighty Causes were 

That forc'd Them to Arise from out a Forrain Tomb. 

Oh Brittan may Thy Days to come be fair 

And All who shall intend thy G-ood 

Be reverendly Heard and rightly Understood 170 

May no Intestine Broiles thy Entrailles Tare 

No Fields in Thee be fought or Nam'd anew by Blood 

May all who Shield Thee due Applauses have 

Whilst for my self like solitary men 

Devoted only to the Pen 

I but a safe Retreat amidst Thee Crave 

Below th' ambitious World and just above my Grave. 

VERSES 
Written under the King of Sweden's Picture 

Observe this Piece, which to our Sight does bring 
The fittest Posture for the Swedish King; 



92 The Poems of Anne 

( Encompass' d, as we think, with Armies round, 
Tho' not express'd within this narrow Bound) 
Who, whilst his warlike and extended Hand 
Directs the foremost Ranks to Charge or Stand, 
Reverts his Face, lest That, so Fair and Young, 
Should call in doubt the Orders of his Tongue : 
Whilst the excited, and embolden'd Rear 
Such Youth beholding, and such Features there, 
Devote their plainer Forms, and are asham'd to Fear. 
Thus! ev'ry Action, ev'ry Grrace of thine, 
O latest Son of Fame, Son of Gusfavus Line! 
Affects thy Troops, with all that can inspire 
A blooming Sweetness, and a martial Fire, 
Fatal to none, but thy invading Foe. 
So Lightnings, which to all their Brightness shew, 
Strike but the Man alone, who has provok'd the Blow. 

THE CIRCUIT OF APPOLLO 

Appollo as lately a Circuit he made, 

Throo' the lands of the Muses when Kent he survey'd 

And saw there that Poets were not very common, 

But most that pretended to Verse, were the Women 

Resolv'd to encourage, the few that he found, 

And she that writt best, with a wreath shou'd be crown'd. 

A summons sent out, was obey'd but by four. 

When Phebus, afflicted, to meet with no more, 

And standing, where sadly, he now might descry. 

From the banks of the Stoure the desolate Wye, 10 

He lamented for Behn o're that place of her birth. 

And said amongst Femens was not on the earth 

Her superiour in fancy, in language, or witt, 

Yett own'd that a little too loosly she writt; 

Since the art of the Muse is to stirr up soft thoughts, 

Yett to make all hearts beat, without blushes, or faults, 



Countess of Winchilsea 93 

But now to proceed, and their merritts to know, 

Before he on any, the Bay's wou'd bestow, 

He order'd them each in their several way. 

To show him their papers, to sing, or to say, 20 

What 'ere they thought best, their pretention's might 

prove, 
When Alinda, began, with a song upon Love. 
So easy the Verse, yett compos' d with such art. 
That not one expression fell short of the heart; 
Apollo himself, did their influence obey, 
He catch'd up his Lyre, and a part he wou'd play, 
Declaring, no harmony else, cou'd be found, 
Fitt to wait upon words, of so moving a sound. 
The Wreath, he reach'd out, to have plac'd on her head, 
If Laura not quickly a paper had read, 30 

Wherin She Orinda has praised so high. 
He own'd itt had reach'd him, while yett in the sky. 
That he thought with himself, when itt first struck his 

ear. 
Who e're cou'd write that, ought the Laurel to wear. 
Betwixt them he stood, in a musing suspence, 
Till Valeria withdrew him a little from thence, 
And told him, as soon as she'd gott him aside, 
Her works, by no other, but him shou'd be try'd ; 
Whicjh so often he read, and with still new delight, 
That Judgment t'was thought wou'd not passe till twas 

'night; 40 

Yet at length, he restor'd them, but told her withall 
If she kept itt still close, he'd the Talent recall. 
Ardelia, came last as expecting least praise. 
Who writt for her pleasure and not for the Bays, 
But yett, as occasion, or fancy should sway, 
Wou'd sometimes endeavour to passe a dull day, 
In composing a song, or a Scene of a Play 



94 The Poems of Anne 

Not seeking for Fame, which so little does last, 
That e're we can taste itt, the Pleasure is Past. 
But Appollo reply'd, tho' so carelesse she seemd, 50 
Yett the Bays, if her share, wou'd be highly esteem' d. 

And now, he was going to make an Oration, 

Had thrown by one lock, with a delicate fassion. 

Upon the left foot, most genteely did stand. 

Had drawn back the other, and wav'd his white hand, 

When calling to mind, how the Prize alltho' given 

By Paris, to her, who was fairest in Heaven, 

Had pull'd on the rash, inconsiderate Boy, 

The fall of his House, with the ruine of Troy, 

Since in Witt, or in Beauty, itt never was heard, 60 

One female cou'd yield t' have another preferr'd, 

He changed his dessign, and devided his praise, 

And said that they all had a right to the Bay's, 

And that t'were injustice, one brow to adorn. 

With a wreath, which so fittly by each might be worn. 

Then smil'd to himself, and applauded his art. 

Who thus nicely has acted so suttle a part, 

Four Women to wheedle, but found 'em too many. 

For who wou'd please all, can never please any. 

In vain then, he thought itt, there longer to stay, 70 

But told them, he now must go drive on the day, 

Yett the case to Parnassus, shou'd soon be referr'd, 

And there in a councill of Muses, be heard, 

Who of their own sex, best the title might try, 

Since no man upon earth, nor Himself in the sky, 

Wou'd be so imprudent, so dull, or so blind. 

To loose three parts in four from amongst woman kind. 



Countess of Winchilsea 95 



AN EPISTLE 

From Ardelia To Mrs. Randolph in answer to her Poetn upon 

Her Verses 
Madam, 

till pow'rfully convinc'd by you, 

I thought those Praises never were Their due, 

Which I had read, or heard bestow'd by Men 

On Women, that have ventur'd on the Pen. 

But now must yeild (pursuaded by your stile) 

That Lesbian Sapho's might all hearts beguile. 

The vanquish'd Pindar, now I must beleive 

Might from Corrina's Muse new Laws receive, 

Since our own Age is happily possest 

Of such a genius, in a Female Breast, 10 

As gives us Faith for all those wonders told, 

Producing New, to justify the old. 

Then we'll no more submitt, but (in your name) 

To Poetry renew our Ancient Claime ; 

Through itts retirement, we'll your worth persue. 

And lead itt into Public Rule and View; 

As the best Monarks, which the Romans made 

Were forc'd to Thrones, from some beloved shade. 

Nor, lett itt to your Verse, objected be. 

That itt has stoop'd so low, to find out me, 20 

Since a mean subject greater skill requires 

Then one, which of itts self, high thoughts inspires. 

And twas the Mantuan Poet's boasted praise, 

Virgil's, who Kings and Heroes best cou'd raise, 

That if to lowly Plaines, he did repair. 

His Song, shou'd make 'em worth a Consull's care. 

Thus, have you Madam, by your lines enhanc'd 

My humble worth, and so, my fame advanc'd, 

That where-so-ere that Panigerick's shown, 



96 The Poems of Anne 

It stands inferiour only to your own; 30 

And whilst Orinda's part you far transcend, 

I proudly bear that of her glorious Friend, 

Who though not equaling her lofty Witt, 

Th' occasion was, of what so well she writt. 

Might I the paralell yett more improve, 

And gain as high a Station in your Love, 

Then shou'd my Pen (directed by my heart) 

Make gratefull Nature, speak the words of Art, 

Since Friendship, like Devotion clears the mind. 

Where every thought, is heighten'd and refin'd. 40 

Had Saul alone, upon Mount Gilboa fell, 

David had sung, but had not sung so well; 

Describ'd th' abandon'd Sheild, and broaken Bow, 

But, to the love of Jonathan we owe 

The Love, which that of Women did surpasse, 

Of that sweet Elegy, the mournfull grace; 

The Brother Jonathan, peirc'd deeper far 

Then all the Spears of that destructive war. 

Thus, may your vallu'd kindnesse, raise my sence, 

Who can but treat you att your own expence, 50 

Nor must, untill I in that wish succeed, 

E're hope to write, what's fitt for you to read, 

Since upon you, itt does alone depend 

To make a Poet, when you make a Friend 

Of Madam &c. 

A PKOLOGUE TO DON CARLOS 
Acted by Yong Ladys, An : 1696 

'Twas long debated, wheither to a Play, 
So known as this, which we present to-day, 
A Prologue, for the Audience shou'd be writt, 
To add to all the rest, th' expence of Witt; 
When in this Kingdom, 'tis so hard to find, 



Countess of Winchilsea 97 

And from such store of Mints, so little's coin'd, 
That shou'd the Muses senate, dam the old, 
The new, no pleasing coinerce cou'd uphold; 
Which makes us a supply, to treat you seek 
From such a Bank, as time nor chance can break; 10 
And Otta way's heroick thoughts, rehearse; 
Love in his Lines, and dye in his smooth Verse. 
Not tire ye, with a Farce, on powder'd Beauxs, 
Who like some Trees, thrive with redoubl'd blows; 
And a new crop of tawdry follys bear, 
After the lash, of each satirick year; 
Whom Silence mortifys the surer way. 
Since Beaux, unminded, only do decay. 
Nor shall we greive Ladys, with fading Graces, 
By any Plott, but shewing yonger faces. 20 

We'll allso spare our safe return'd coimanders. 
And be as mild, as their campagn in Flanders. 
Nay, tho' we'll poyson too, the Queen of Spain, 
It sha'nt be long, ere she revives again. 
In our design, no secret malice lyes. 
And All may 'scape, that can withstand our Eyes. 
But Gentlemen, 111 tell ye, least ye say 
Ye were surpris'd, and vanquish'd by foul play. 
Our Eyes, for conquest, are so well prepar'd, 
You'd need be warn'd to stand upon your guard. 30 
The Black, with unsheath'd glances, all defying. 
The softer Grey, in dang'rous Ambush lying. 
And on each Cheeck, the youthfull colours flying, 
Which we expect, shou'd no resistance meet, 
'Till every heart, lyes beating at our feet. 
Now, if you'll stay, repent itt not hereafter. 
When that subdu'd, you find we give no quarter; 
Nor think itt hard, we put stale witt upon you. 
Who shew fresh Beauty, and excuse your mony. 



98 The Poems op Anne 



A POEM, OCCASION'D BY THE SIGHT OF THE I^h 
EPISTLE LIB. EPIST: 1. OF HORACE 

Immitated and Inscribed to Richard Thornhill Esq. by Mr Rowe, 
who had before sent heithev, another translation from Horace 

Twice in our Solitude has now appear'd 
Such verse as Rome throng'd with applauders heard, 
And twice, Her Horace been to us reviv'd 
As prais'd and pollish'd as to them he liv'd. 
The Stuif and Workman's skill so nicely shown. 
We think the Words as well as thoughts his own 
And Joy to see that by relenting Fate 
(Which Speech confus'd) tis given thus to translate 
Whilst Babel's scatter' d streames unite again 
Beneath the conduct of th' industrious Pen 10 

But why shou'd such a Muse as can comend 
And Paralell the Virtues of a Friend 
Describe from ancient Rules with modern Art 
His Copious sensce each ornamental part 
Mistake the softer Buisnesse of his heart 
Or ask how he the too swift Hours imploys 
Who late possess'd of so long courted Joys 
Flyes to some still retreate and shunn's the Citty's 

noise 
As He whom Poets fein t'have rul'd above 
When sway'd himself by more commanding Love 20 
Left his Society and Court of Gods 
To stem the Hellispont and haunt the Woods 
Nor to Olimpus but some lonely shade 
With untrac'd steps the beauteous Prize convey'd. 

Nor be itt thought that Tragedy has place 
Within the influence of Orania's face 
Not he who cou'd so well our souls comand 
And toutch each string with a prevailing hand 



Countess of Winghilsea 99 

His Belvedera's or Monimia's Fate 

Cou'd 'ere haue Plotted in so bless'd a State 30 

(Since 'tis from our own bosome cares that flow 
The moving scenes we on the World bestow) 
Yett had he liv'd Orania to have seen 
His Caracters had sure more perfect been 
Not such as sullied in his Plays were shown 
One by anothers guilt one by her own. 
Tho' for Her Charms Brothers might too contest 
And the best secret quitt the closest Breast. 
So bright her form for whom such Numbers strove 
Till the most worthy fixt her envy'd Love 40 

Whilst but to him and her own sex confin'd 
Are now the soft indearments of her Mind 
Inspiring Joy still chearfull and att ease 

(For they are allways pleas'd who allways please) 
Even I who to my Heart just bounds had sett 
And in my Friendship scorn' d to be coquette 
Or seem indulgent to each new Adresse 
Which generall Friends in comon terms expresse 
Now (by so sweet a violence compell'd) 
The amplest room to kind Orania yield 50 

Then is it strange the Youth a while remains 
Contemplating his Blisse on silent Plaines 
Lives to Himself and the selected Fair 
Nor can enough of those lov'd moments spare 

(If rightly I Devine) a debt to pay 
Of well writt Verse (tho' none more knows the way) 
Nor hardly will atfoard one sprightly Line 
To crown the Health still wish'd him at the Vine 
Where he returning shall sustain a part 
Of heighten'd Witt and of the Critticks Art 60 

With Him whose Numbers to our shades extend 
And Him that stoop'd our Numbers to comend 
LofC. 



100 The Poems of Anne 

Whose well bred Muse found something to allow 

And tho' they fail'd wou'd to the Woman bow 

Happy You three ! happy the Race of Men ! 

Born to inform or to correct the Pen 

To proffitts pleasures freedom and command 

Whilst we beside you but as Cyphers stand 

T' increase your Numbers and to swell th' account • 

Of your delights which from our charms amount 70 

And sadly are by this distinction taught 

That since the Fall (by our seducement wrought) 

Ours is the greater losse as ours the greater fault 

AN EPILOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF JANE SHORE 

To bespoken by Mrs. Oldfield the night before the Poet's Day 

The audience seems tonight so very kind, 

I fancy I may freely speak my mind, 

And tell you, when the author nam'd Jane Shore, 

I all her glorious history run o'er, 

And thought he would have shewn her on the stage, 

In the first triumphs of her blooming age; 

Edivard in public at her feet a slave. 

The jealous Queen in private left to rave; 

Yet Jcme superior still in all the strife, 

For sure that mistress leads a wretched life, 10 

Who can't insult the Keeper and the wife. 

This I concluded was his right design, 

To make her lavish, careless, gay and fine ; 

Not bring her here to mortify and whine. 

I hate such parts as we have plaid today, 

Before I promis'd, had I read the play, 

I wou'd have staid at home, and drank my Tea. 

Then why the husband shou'd at last be brought 

To hear her own and aggravate her fault, 



Countess of Winchilsea 101 

Puzzled as much my discontented thought. 20 

For were I to transgress, for all the Poet, 

I'll swear no friend of mine should ever know it. 

But you perhaps are pleas'd to see her mended. 

And so should I ; had all her charms been ended. 

But whilst another lover might be had, 

The woman or the Poet must be mad. 

There is a season, which too fast approaches, 

And every list'ning beauty nearly touches; 

When handsome Ladies, falling to decay, 

Pass thro' new epithets to smooth the way: 30 

From fair and young transportedly confess'd, 

Dwindle io fine, well fashion'' d, and well dress' d. 

Thence as their fortitude's extremest proof, 

To well as yet; from ivell to well enough; 

Till having on such weak foundation stood, 

Deplorably at last they sink to good. 

Abandon'd then, 'tis time to be retir'd. 

And seen no more, when not alas! admir'd. 

By men indeed a better fate is known. 

The pretty fellow, that has youth outgrown, 40 

Who nothing knew, but how his cloaths did sit, 

Transforms to a Free-thinker and a Wit; 

At Operas becomes a skill'd Musician; 

Ends in a partyman and politician ; 

Maintains some figure, while he keeps his breath. 

And is a fop of consequence till death. 

And so would I have had our mistress Shore 

To make a figure, till she pleas'd no more. 

But if you better like her present sorrow, 

Pray let me see you here again to-morrow , 50 

And should the house be throng' d the Poets' day, 

Whate'er he makes us women do or say, 

You'll not believe, that he'll go fast and pray. 



102 The Poems of Anne 



TO MR. PRIOR FROM A LADY UNKNOWN 

The Nymph whose Virgin-heart thy charms have taught 

To cherish Love, with secret wishes fraught, 

Reserv'd at first, endeavours to conceal 

What She had rather die than not reveal, 

No fears the Love-sick Maid can long restrain. 

None read Thy verse, or hear Thee speak in vain. 

Thy melting Numbers, and polite Address, 

In ev'ry Fair raise passion to excess. 

In either sex You never fail, we find. 

To cultivate the heart, or charm the mind. 

In raptures lost. I fear not your disdain, 

But own I languish to possess your vein. 

As a fond bird, pleas'd with the teacher's note, 

Expends his life to raise his mimic throat, 

His little art, exerting all he can, 

Charm'd witK the tune, to imitate the man: 

Kudely he chants, yet labours not in vain, 

By wild essays just so much song to gain, 

As tempts his master to renew the strain. 

Such is my verse, with equal zeal I burn. 

Too happy, shou'd I meet the same return. 

THE ANSWER 
[To Pope's Impromptu] 

Disarm' d with so genteel an air, 

The contest I give o'er; 
Yet, Alexander, have a care, 

And shock the sex no more. 
We rule the world our life's whole race, 

Men but assume that right ; 
First slaves to ev'ry tempting face, 



Countess of Winchilsea 103 

Then martyrs to our spite. 
You of one Orpheus sure have read, 

Who would like you have writ 10 

Had he in London town been bred, 

And polish'd to[o] his wit; 
But he poor soul thought all was well, 

And great should be his fame, 
When he had left his wife in hell, 

And birds and beasts could tame. 
Yet venturing then with scoffing rhimes 

The women to incense. 
Resenting Heroines of those times 

Soon punished his ofPence. 20 

And as the Hebrus roll'd his scull, 

And harp besmear'd with blood, 
They clashing as the waves grew full, 

Still harmoniz'd the flood. 
But you our follies gently treat, 

And spin so fine the thread. 
You need not fear his aukward fate. 

The lock wo'n't cost the head. 
Our admiration you command 

For all that's gone before ; 30 

What next we look for at your hand 

Can only raise it more. 
Yet sooth the Ladies I advise 

(As me too pride has wrought,) 
We're born to wit, but to be wise 

By admonitions taught. 

TO ME. POPE 

The muse, of ev'ry heav'nly gift allowed 
To be the chief, is public, though not proud. 
Widely extensive is the poet's aim. 



104 The Poems of Anne 

And in each verse he draws a bill on fame. 
For none have writ (whatever they pretend) 
Singly to raise a patron, or a friend; 
But whatsoe'er the theme or object be, 
Some commendations to themselves foresee. 
. Then let us find in your foregoing page, 
The celebrating poems of the age ; 10 

Nor by injurious scruples think it fit 
To hide their judgments who applaud your wit. 
But let their pens to yours the heralds prove, 
Who strive for you as Greece for Homer strove ; 
Whilst he who best your poetry asserts. 
Asserts his own, by sympathy of parts. 
Me panegyric verse does not inspire. 
Who never well can praise what I admire; 
Nor in those lofty trials dare appear. 
But gently drop this counsel in your ear. 20 

Go on, to gain applauses by desert. 
Inform the head, whilst you dissolve the heart; 
Inflame the soldier with harmonious rage. 
Elate the young, and gravely warn the sage ; 
Allure with tender verse the female race, 
And give their darling passion courtly grace ; 
Describe the Forest still in rural strains. 
With vernal sweets fresh breathing from the plains. 
Your tales be easy, natural, and gay, 
Nor all the poet in that part display ; 30 

Nor lot the critic there his skill unfold. 
For Boccace thus, and Chaucer tales have told. 
Soothe, as you only can, each diff'ring taste, 
And for the future charm as in the past. 
Then should the verse of ev'ry artful hand 
Before your numbers eminently stand ; 
In you no vanity could thence be shown, 



Countess of Winchilsea 105 

Unless, since short in beauty of your own, 
Some envious scribbler might in spite declare, 
That for comparison you placed them there. 40 

But envy could not against you succeed, 
'Tis not from friends that write, or foes that read; 
Censure or praise must from ourselves proceed. 

TO A FELLOW SCKIBBLER 

Prithee, friend, that hedge behold: 

When all we rhiming fools grow old, 

That hedge our state will represent. 

Who in vain flourish life have spent; 

Amidst it stands a rivall'd tree 

Now representing sixty three. 

And like it you and I shall be. 

The bare vine round about it clings 

With mischievous, intangling strings, 

The night shade, with a dismal flow'r, 10 

Curl's o'er it, like a Lady's tower; 

Or honesty with feather'd down, 

Like grizled hair deforms its crown; 

Luxuriant plants that o'er it spread. 

Not med'cinal for heart or head. 

Which serve but to amuse the sisht. 

Are like the nothings that we write; 

Yet still 'tis thought, that tree's well plac'd, 

With beauteous Eglantine imbrac'd; 

But see how false appearance proves, 20 

If he that honey-suckle loves; 

His love the honey-suckle scorns, 

Which climbs by him to reach the thorns; 

The rival thorn his age derides, 

And gnaws like jealousy his sides. 

Then let us cease, my friend, to sing 



106 The Poems of Anne 

When ever youth is on the wing, 

Unless we solidly indite, 

Some good infusing while we write. 

Lest with our follies hung around, 30 

We like that tree and hedge be found, 

Grotesque and trivial, shun'd by all, 

And soon forgotten when we fall. 

TO DR- WALDRON 

A Fellow of All Souls Colledge in Oxford, Who in a Letter 
acknowledged his mistake in having lefte that Society & the 
Muses to follow the Practise of Phisck 

'Tis true Mirtillo 'twas a fault 
T' have been by glittering proffit wrought 
To quit that seat of thoughts refined 
That Eden to the fruitfull mind 
Where thy well nurs'd and thriving Muse 
Such sweets and plenty did diffuse 
Buisnesse to court thy freedoms fane 
Of Life the well nam'd Hurricane 
To leave th' embraces of a Friend 
Which there kind Fate did often send 10 

A Miser's guilty hand to hold 
And feel his Pulse, to feel his Gold 
Who startles att the name of thee 
And in suspence 'twixt Life and Fee 
How to determine seems so loth 
Till by delay, he parts with both, 
Whom hadd'st thou rais'd from fainting sweats 
Supporting Him had propp'd new cheats 
By wealth too fatally betray'd 

'Twas ill resolv'd to quitt some Maid 20 

Whose blooming youth and chearfull face 
Expell'd contagion from each Place 



Countess of Winchilsea 107 

A Grand-Sires latest plaints to hear 

Sick only of his nintieth year 

To combat with each foul disease 

That can unwholsome Nature seize 

The brisker aid of sprightly wine 

For Sal-volatile resign 

With Druggs and their mistaken force. 
'Twas ill to clogg that gay discourse 30 

Which here-to-fore when unconfin'd 

Remov'd all sicknesse from the Mind 

Whilst Table-books were richly fraught 

With Witt which cost thee scarce a thought 

So swift itt from occasions rose 

Extempore in Verse or Prose 

Why shou'd that Herb which cur'd our spleen 

When from thy Pen so fresh so green 

So soft so fragrant and so yong 

It in th' inliven'd Fancy sprung 40 

Grow useless by o're labour'd skill 

And draining through a winding still 

Why shou'd thy time and sence be lost 

In saving those not worth the cost 

Believe me too 'tis all in vain 

Believe one of the Riming Traine 
'Tis vain to strive in Fate's dispite 

Numbers with mony to unite 

That sordid Plant we ne're cou'd raise 

Within the odour of the Bays 50 

Forsake then thy ill chosen toile 

Return to that abandon'd soyle 

Return Mirtillo to Apollo's Rules 

Return to ease and to the Muses scools 

Live there a Wit leave druggery to fools 



108 The Poems of Anne 

TO EDWARD JENKINSON, ESQ. 
a very young Gentleman, who writ a Poem on PEACE 

Fair Youth ! who wish the Wars may cease, 

We own you better form'd for Peace. 

Nor Pallas you, nor Mars shou'd follow; 

Your Gods are Cupid and Apollo; 

Who give sweet Looks, and early Rhimes, 

Bespeaking Joys, and Halcyon Times. 

Your Face, which We, as yet, may praise, 

Calls for the Myrtle, and the Bays. 

The Martial Crowns Fatigues demand, 

And laurell'd Heroes must be tann'd; 10 

A Fate, we never can allow 

Shou'd reach your pleasing, polish'd Brow. 

But granting what so young you've writ, 

From Nature flow'd, as well as Wit ; 

And that indeed you Peace pursue, 

We must begin to Treat with you. 

We Females, Sir, it is I mean: 

Whilst I, like Bristol for the Queen, 

For all the Ladies of your Age 

As Plenipo' betimes engage; 20 

And as first Article declare. 

You shall be Faithful as you're Fair: 

No Sighs, when you shall know their Use, 

Shall be discharg'd in Love's Abuse ; 

Nor kindling Words shall undermine, 

Till you in equal Passion join. 

Nor Money be alone your Aim, 

Tho' you an Over-weight may claim, 

And fairly build on your Desert, 

If with your Person goes your Heart. 30 

But when this Barrier I have gain'd, 



Countess of Winohilsea 109 

And trust it will be well maintain'd ; 
Who knows, but some imprudent She 
Betraying what's secur'd by me, 
Shall yield thro' Verse, or stronger Charms, 
To Treat anew on easier Terms? 

And I be negligently told 

You was too Young, and I too Old, 
To have our distant Maxims hold. 

TO MR. JERVAS 

Occasioned by the Sight of Mrs. Chetivind's Picture 

This matchless Picture, Jervas, hide, 

Or let it stand alone; 
When one does over all preside, 

The rest are vainly shown. 

The meanest Figures of the Sky, 

(Though drawn with handsome Faces,) 
Are, when their Goddesses are by, 
Th' attending Nymphs and Graces. 

For sure, (as Caesar chose Renown) 

'Tis better to be reckon'd. 
The Dulcinea of some Town, 
Than in a Court, the Second. 

Then, let this new Campaspe go, 

Or, if thou'lt not resign. 
As thou Apelles' Skill doest know. 

So, may his Heart be thine. 

To praise more equal leave our Choice, 

When we thy Works survey. 
Nor let each sighing Breast and Voice, 

But one Applause betray. 



110 The Poems of Anne 

TO A FRIEND 
In Praise of the Invention of Writing Letters 

Blest be the Man! his Memory at least, 

Who found the Art, thus to unfold his Breast, 

And taught succeeding Times an easy way 

Their secret Thoughts by Letters to convey ; 

To bafSe Absence, and secure Delight, 

Which, till that Time, was limited to Sight. 

The parting Farewel spoke, the last Adieu, 

The less'ning Distance past, then loss of View, 

The Friend was gone, which some kind Moments gave. 

And Absence separated, like the Grave. 10 

The Wings of Love were tender too, till then 

No Quill, thence pull'd, was shap'd into a Pen, 

To send in Paper-sheets, from Town to Town, 

Words smooth as they, and softer than his Down. 

O'er such he reign'd, whom Neighbourhood had join'd, 

And hopt, from Bough to Bough, supported by the Wind. 

When for a Wife the youthful Patriarch sent. 

The Camels, Jewels, and the Steward went, 

A wealthy Equipage, tho' grave and slow; 

But not a Line, that might the Lover shew. 20 

The Rings and Bracelets woo'd her Hands and Arms ; 

But had she known of melting Words, the Charms ' 

That under secret Seals in Ambush lie, 

To catch the Soul, when drawn into the Eye, 

The Fair Assyrian had not took this Guide, 

Nor her soft Heart in Chains of Pearl been ty'd. 

Had these Conveyances been then in Date, ♦ 

Joseph had known his wretched Father's State, 
Before a Famine, which his Life pursues. 
Had sent his other Sons, to tell the News. 30 



Countess of Winchilsea 111 

Oh! might I live to see an Art arise, 
As this to Thoughts, indulgent to the Eyes; 
That the dark Pow'rs of distance cou'd subdue. 
And make me See, as well as Talk to You; 
That tedious Miles, nor Tracts of Air might prove 
Bars to my Sight, and shadows to my Love! 
Yet were it granted, such unbounded Things 
Are wand'ring Wishes, born on Phancy's Wings, 
They'd stretch themselves beyond this happy Case, 
And ask an Art, to help us to Embrace. 40 

CLAKINDA'S INDIFFERENCE AT PARTING WITH HER 

BEAUTY 

Now, age came on, and all the dismal traine 
That fright the vitious, and afflicte the vaine. 
Departing beauty, now Clarinda spies 
Pale in her cheeks, and dying in her eyes; 
That youthfull air, that wanders ore the face. 
That undescrib'd, that unresisted grace. 
Those morning beams, that strongly warm, and shine, 
Which men that feel and see, can ne're define. 
Now, on the wings of restlesse time, were fled, 
And ev'ning shades, began to rise, and spread, 10 

When thus resolv'd, and ready soon to part, 
Slighting the short repreives of proffer'd art 
She spake — 

And what, vain beauty, didst thou 'ere atcheive, 
When at thy height, that I thy fall shou'd greive, 
When, did'st thou e're succesfully persue? 
When, did'st thou e're th' appointed foe subdue? 
'Tis vain of numbers, or of strength to boast. 
In an undisciplin'd, unguided Host, 

And love, that did thy mighty hopes deride. 20 

Wou'd pay no sacrafice, but to thy pride. 



112 The Poems of Anne 

When, did'st thou e're a pleasing rule obtain, 
A glorious Empire's but a glorious pain, 
Thou, art indeed, but vanity's cheife sourse, 
But foyle to witt, to want of witt a curse, 
For often, by thy gaudy sign's descry'd 
A fool, which unobserv'd, had been untry'd, 
And when thou doest such empty things adorn, 
'Tis but to make them more the publick scorn. 
I know thee well, but weak thy reign wou'd be 30 

Did n'one adore, or prize thee more then me, 
I see indeed, thy certain mine neer, 
But can't affoard one parting sigh, or tear. 
Nor rail at Time, nor quarrell with my glasse, 
But unconcern' d, can lett thy glories passe. 

SOME PIECES OUT OF THE FIRST ACT OF THE AMINTA 

OF TASSO 

DAPHNE'S Answer to SYLVIA, declaring she should esteem all 
as Enemies, ivho should talk to her of Love 

Then, to the snowy Ewe, in thy esteem, 

The Father of the Flock a Foe must seem , 

The faithful Turtles to their yielding Mates. 

The chearful Spring, which Love and Joy creates, 

That reconciles the World by soft Desires, 

And tender Thoughts in ev'ry Breast inspires. 

To you a hateful Season must appear, 

Whilst Love prevails, and all are Lovei^s here. 

Observe the gentle Murmurs of that Dove, 

And see, how billing she confirms her Love! 

For this, the Nightingale displays her Throat, 10 

And Love, Love, Love, is all her Ev'ning Note. 

The very Tygers have their tender Hours, 

And prouder Lyons bow beneath Loik'^s Pow'rs. 

Thou, prouder yet than that imperious Beast, 



Countess of Winohilsea 113 

Alone deny'st him Shelter in thy Breast. 
But why should I the Creatures only name 
That Sense partake, as Owners of this Flame? 
Love farther goes, nor stops his Course at these: 
The Plants he moves, and gently bends the Trees. 
See how those Willows mix their am'rous Boughs ; 20 
And, how that Vine clasps her supporting Spouse ! 
The silver Firr dotes on the stately Pine ; 
By Love those Elms, by Love those Beeches join. 
But view that Oak; behold his rugged Side : 
Yet that rough Bark the melting Flame do's hide. 
All, by their trembling Leaves, in Sighs declare 
And tell their Passions to the gath'ring Air. 
Which, had but Love o'er Thee the least Command, 
Thou, by their Motions, too might'st understand. 

Amintor being ask'd by Thiksis who is the object of his Love? 
speaks as folloivs 

Amint THIRSTS! to Thee I mean that Name to 

show, 
Which, only yet our Groves, and Fountains know: 
That, when my Death shall through the Plains be 

told. 
Thou with the wretched Cause may'st that unfold 
To every-one, who shall my Story find 
Carv'd by thy Hand, in some fair Beeches rind ; 
Beneath whose Shade the bleeding Body lay: 
That, when by chance she shall be led that way. 
O'er my sad Grave the haughty Nymph may go, 
And the proud Triumph of her Beauty shew 10 

To all the Swains, to Strangers as they pass ; 
And yet at length she may (but Oh! alas! 
I fear, too high my flatt'ring Hopes do soar) 
Yet she at length may my sad Fate deplore ; 



114 The Poems of Anne 



May weep me Dead, may o'er my Tomb recline, 
And fighing, wish were he alive and Mine ! 
But mark me to the End — 

Thir. Go on ; for well I do thy Speech attend, 
Perhaps to better Ends, than yet thou know'st. 

Ami7it. Being now a Child, or but a Youth at most, 20 
When scarce to reach the blushing Fruit I knew. 
Which on the lowest bending Branches grew ; 
Still with the dearest, sweetest, kindest Maid 
Young as myself, at childish Sports I play'd. 
The Fairest, sure, of all that Lovely Kind, 
Who spread their golden Tresses to the Wind ; 
Cydippe's Daughter, and Montana's Heir, 
Whose Flocks and Herds so numerous do appear; 
The beauteous Sylvia; She, 'tis She I love. 
Warmth of all Hearts, and Pride of ev'ry Grove. 30 

With Her I liv'd, no Turtles e'er so fond. 
Our Houses met, but more our Souls were join'd. 
Together Nets for Fish, and Fowl we laid ; 
Together through the spacious Forest stray'd ; 
Pursu'd with equal Speed the flying Deer, 
And of the Spoils there no Divisions were. 
But whilst I from the Beasts their Freedom won, 
Alas! I know not how, my Own was gone. 
By unperceiv'd Degrees the Fire encreas'd, 
Which fill'd, at last, each corner of my Breast; 40 

As from a Koot, tho' scarce discern'd so small, 
A Plant may rise, that grows amazing tall. 
From Sylvia''s Presence now I could not move, 
And from her Eyes took in full Draughts of Love, 
Which sweetly thro' my ravish'd Mind distill'd ; 
Yet in the end such Bitterness wou'd yield, 
That oft I sigh'd, ere yet I knew the cause. 
And was a Lover, ere I dream'd I was. 



Countess of Winchilsea 115 

But Oh! at last, too well my State I knew; 

And now, will shew thee how this Passion grew. 50 

Then listen, while the pleasing Tale I tell. 

THIRSIS persuades AMINTOR not to despair upon the Pre- 
dictions of MOPSUS discov'ring him to be an Impostor 

Thirsis. Why dost thou still give way to such Despair! 

Amintor. Too just, alas ! the weighty Causes are. 
Mopsns, wise Mopsus, who in Art excels, 
And of all Plants the secret Vertue tells, 
Knows, with what healing Gifts our Springs abound, 
And of each Bird explains the mystick Sound ; 
'Twas He, ev'n He ! my wretched Fate foretold. 

Thir. Dost thou this Speech then of that Mopsus hold. 
Who, whilst his Smiles attract the easy View, 
Drops flatt'ring Words, soft as the falling Dew; 10 

Whose outward Form all friendly still appears, 
Tho' Fraud and Daggers in his Thoughts he wears. 
And the unwary Labours to surprize 
With Looks affected, and with riddling Lyes. 
If He it is, that bids thy Love despair, 
I hope the happier End of all thy Care. 
So far from Truth his vain Predictions fall. 

Amint. If ought thou know'st, that may my Hopes 
recall. 
Conceal it not; for great I've heard his Fame, 
And fear'd his Words — 

Thir. — When hither first I came, 20 

And in these Shades the false Impostor met. 
Like Thee I priz'd, and thought his Judgment great; 
On all his study'd Speeches still rely'd. 
Nor fear'd to err, whilst led by such a Guide: 
When on a Day, that Bus'ness and Delight 
My Steps did to the Neighb'ring Town invite, 



116 The Poems of Anne 

Which stands upon that rising Mountain's side, 

And from our Plains this River do's divide, 

He check'd me thus — Be warn'd in time, My Son, 

And that new World of painted Mischiefs shun, 30 

Whose gay Inhabitants thou shalt behold 

Plum'd like our Birds, and sparkling all in Gold ; 

Courtiers, that will thy rustick Garb despise. 

And mock thy Plainness with disdainful Eyes. 

But above all, that Structure see thou fly, 

Where hoarded Vanities and Witchcrafts lie ; 

To shun that Path be thy peculiar Care. 

I ask, what of that Place the Dangers are: 

To which he soon replies, there shalt thou meet 

Of soft Enchantresses th' Enchantments sweet, 40 

Who subt'ly will thy solid Sense bereave. 

And a false Gloss to ev'ry Object give. 

Brass to thy Sight as polish'd Gold shall seem, 

And Glass thou as the Diamond shalt esteem. 

Huge Heaps of Silver to thee shall appear, 

Which if approach'd, will prove but shining Air. 

The very Walls by Magick Art are wrought. 

And Repetition to all Speakers taught : 

Not such, as from our Ecchoes we obtain. 

Which only our last Words return again ; 50 

But Speech for Speech entirely there they give, 

And often add, beyond what they receive. 

There downy Couches to false Rest invite, 

The Lawn is charm'd, that faintly bars the Light. 

No gilded Seat, no iv'ry Board is there. 

But what thou may'st for some Delusion fear: 

Whilst, farther to abuse thy wond'ring Eyes, 

Strange antick Shapes before them shall arise ; 

Fantastick Fiends, that will about thee flock, 

And all they see, with Imitation mock. 60 



Countess of Winchilsea 117 

Nor are these Ills the worst. Thyself may'st be 
Transform'd into a Flame, a Stream, a Tree; 
A Tear, congeal'd by Art, thou may'st remain, 
'Till by a burning Sigh dissolv'd again. 
Thus spake the Wretch; but cou'd not shake my Mind. 
My way I take, and soon the City find, 
Where above all that lofty Fabrick stands. 
Which, with one View, the Town and Plains commands. 
Here was I stopt, for who cou'd quit the Ground, 
That heard such Musick from those Roofs resound! 70 
Musick ! beyond th' enticing Syrene's Note ; 
Musick ! beyond the Swan's expiring Throat ; 
Beyond the softest Voice, that charms the Grove, 
And equal' d only by the Spheres above. 
My Ear I thought too narrow for the Art, 
Nor fast enough convey'd it to my Heart: 
When in the Entrance of the Gate I saw 
A Man Majestick, and commanding Awe ; 
Yet temper'd with a Carriage, so refin'd 
That undetermin'd was my doubtful Mind, 80 

Whether for Love, or War, that Form was most design'd. 
With such a Brow, as did at once declare 
A gentle Nature, and a Wit severe ; 
To view that Palace me he ask'd to go, 
Tho' Royal He, and I Obscure and Low. 
But the Delights my Senses there did meet, 
No rural Tongue, no Swain can e'er repeat. 
Celestial Goddesses, or Nymphs as Fair, 
In unveil'd Beauties, to all Eyes appear 
Sprinkl'd with Gold, as glorious to the View, 90 

As young Aurora, deck'd with pearly Dew; 
Bright Rays dispensing, as along they pass'd, 
And with new Light the shining Palace grac'd. 
Phcehus was there by all the Muses met, 



118 The Poems of Anne 

And at his Feet was our Elpino set. 

Ev'n humble Me their Harmony inspir'd, 

My Breast expanded, and my Spirits fir'd. 

Rude Past'ral now, no longer I rehearse. 

But Heroes crown with my exalted Verse. 

Of Arms I sung, of bold advent' rous Wars; 100 

And tho' brought back by my too envious Stars, 

Yet kept my Voice and Keed those lofty Strains, 

And sent loud Musick through the wond'ring Plains: 

Which Mopsus hearing, secretly maligned. 

And now to ruin Both at once design'd. 

Which by his Sorceries he soon brought to pass ; 

And suddenly so clogg'd, and hoarse I was. 

That all our Shepherds, at the Change amaz'd, 

Believ'd, I on some Ev''ning- Wolf had gaz'd: 

When He it was, my luckless Path had crost, 110 

By whose dire Look, my Skill awhile was lost. 

This have I told, to raise thy Hopes again. 

And render, by distrust, his Malice vain. 

FROM THE AMINTA OF TASSO 

Tho' we, of small Proportion see 
And slight the armed Golden Bee; 
Yet if her Sting behind she leaves, 
No Ease th' envenom' d Flesh receives. 
Love, less to Sight than is this Fly, 
In a soft Curl conceal'd can lie ; 
Under an Eyelid's lovely Shade, 
Can form a dreadful Ambuscade ; 
Can the most subtil Sight beguile 
Hid in the Dimples of a Smile. 
But if from thence a Dart he throw, 
How sure, how mortal is the Blow! 
How helpless all the Pow'r of Art 
To bind, or to restore the Heart I 



Countess of Winchilsea 119 

FROM THE AMINTA OF TASSO 
Part of the Description of the Golden Age 

Then, by some Fountains flow'ry side 
The Loves unarm'd, did still abide. 
Then, the loos'd Quiver careless hung, 
The Torch extinct, the Bow unstrung. 
Then, by the Nymphs no Charms were worn, 
But such as with the Nymphs were born. 
The Shepherd cou'd not, then, complain, 
Nor told his am'rous Tale in vain. 
No Veil the Beauteous Face did hide. 
Nor harmless Freedom was deny'd. 
Then, Innocence and Virtue reign' d 
Pure, unaffected, unconstrain'd. 
Love was their Pleasure, and their Praise, 
The soft Employment of their Days. 

FROM THE FRENCH, OF THE 188™ SONNET OF 
PETRARC 

When Phoebus, at declining of the day 

His golden Chariot plunges in the Sea, 

Leaning my Soul, and this forsaken air 

With darknesse cover'd, and with black dispair, 

I by the rising streaks of Cynthia's light, 

My greifs bewail, and dread th' approaching night. 

I to the Heav'ns, and to the Stars relate. 

That hear me not, the Stories of my fate. 

What wonder, if by them unheard I be. 

Since all things, are insencible to me? 

Fortune to me, alas! is doubly blind, 

My Mistresse cruel, and the world unkind; 

With these, with love, and with my self I chide. 



120 The Poems of Anne 

Nor will one pleasing thought, with me abide; 
Sleep, from my weary, restlesse temples fl.yes, 
And falling tears, prevent my closing eyes. 
My soul, till morning, thus her anguish shews. 
When soft Aurora cheerfull light renews. 
But still, behind the Cloud, my Sun remains, 
'Tis she must give me light, and ease my pains. 



A SONG OF THE CANIBALS 
out of Mountain's Essays; done into English verse, paraphrased 

The French 

Coleuvre, arest toy; arest toy, Coleuvre; afin que ma 
seur tire sur le patron de ta peinture, le fa^on, & I'ouvrage 
d' un rich cordon, que je puisse donner a ma Mie. ainsi, soit 
en tout temps, ta beaute, & ta disposition, preferez a touts 
les autres Serpents. 

The English 

Lovely viper, haste not on. 

Nor curl, in various folds along, 

Till from that figur'd coat of thine, 

Which ev'ry motion, makes more fine. 

I take, as neer as art can doe, 

A draught, of what I wond'ring view; 

Which, in a bracelett, for my Love 

Shall be with carefull mixtures wove. 

So, may'st thou find thy beautys last, 

As thou doest now, retarde thy haste. 

So, may'st thou, above all the snakes, 

That harbour, in the neigh' bring brakes. 

Be honour'd; and where thou does [sic] passe 

The shades be close, and fresh the grasse. 



Countess of Winchilsea 121 

A MAXIM 

For the Ladys, translated from Mon^"" du Bussy 

From the best witt of France, receive 
A maxim, he to Ladys gave. 
If once with cruel love opresst 
Lett secrecy concern you most, 
In mistery, lett itt still be dresst, 
'Tis not by Love, that you are lost. 
But by the way, that 'tis expresst, 

ON ABSENCE 

From the maxims of Bussy Rahutin 

Absence on Love effects the same 
As winds oppos'd to fire 
Extinguishes a feeble Flame 
And blows a great one higher. 

WRITTEN BEFORE A FRENCH BOOK 

EntitVd les moyens de se guerir de V Amour 

In love, who to a cure aspires. 

Never felt but weak desires, 

Suddain starts, of fancy'd passion, 

Such, as move the Gallick nation; 

Gainst which, receipts, they here compose, 

Of so much Verse, to so much prose ; 

Whilst within our British Islands 

From Pendennis, to the Highlands, 

Only faces, wher'in Nature 

Has not plac'd one tempting feature, 

Or wrincles, that defye Pomatum 

For love, are remedies probatum. 



122 The Poems of Anne 



THE EQUIPAGE 

Written Originally in French by VAbM Reigner 

Since the Road of Life's so ill; 
I, to pass it, use this Skill, 
My frail Carriage driving home 
To its latest Stage, the Tomb. 
Justice first, in Harness strong, 
Marches stedfastly along: 
Charity, to smooth the Pace, 
Fills the next adjoining Trace: 
Independance leads the Way, 
Whom no heavy Curb do's sway ; 
Truth an equal Part sustains, 
All indulg'd the loosen'd Reins: 
In the Box fits vigWous Health , 
Shunning miry Paths of Wealth : 
Gaiety with easy Smiles, 
Ev'ry harsher Step beguiles; 
Whilst of Nature, or of Fate 
Only This I wou'd intreat: 
The Equipage might not decay. 
Till the worn Carriage drops away. 

MELINDA ON AN INSIPPID BEAUTY 

In imitation of a fragment of Sapho's 
You, when your body, life shall leave 
Must drop entire, into the grave ; 
Unheeded, unregarded lye. 
And all of you together dye; 
Must hide that fleeting charm, that face in dust, 
Or to some painted cloath, the slighted Immage trust. 
Whilst my fam'd works, shall throo' all times surprise 
My polish'd thoughts, my bright Ideas rise, 
And to new men be known, still talking to their eyes. 



Countess of Winchilsea 123 



PAKT OF THE FIFTH SCENE IN THE SECOND ACT OF 
ATHALIA, A TRAGEDY WRITTEN IN FRENCH BY 
MONSIEUR RACINE 

Enter, as in the Temple of Jerusalem 
ATHALIA, MAT HAN, ABNER. 

Mathan. 
Why, to our Wonder, in this Place is seen, 
Thus discompos'd, and alterd, Jiidcis Queen? 
May we demand, what Terrors seize your Breast, 
Or, why your Steps are to this House addrest. 
Where your unguarded Person stands expos' d 
To secret Foes, within its Walls inclos'd? 
Can it be thought that you remit that Hate? 

Athalia. 
No more! but Both observe what I relate: 
Not, that I mean (recalling Times of Blood) 
To make you Judges of the Paths I trod, 10 

When to the empty'd Throne I boldly rose. 
Treating all Intercepters as my Foes. 
'Twas Heav'ns Decree, that I should thus succeed, 
Whose following Favour justifies the Deed, 
Extending my unlimited Command 
From Sea to Sea o'er the obedient Land: 
Whilst your Jerusalem all Peace enjoys, 
Nor now the' encroaching Philistine destroys, 
Nor wandring Arab his Pavilion spreads, 
Near Jordan'' s Banks, nor wastes his flow'ry Meads. 20 
The great Assyrian, Terror of your Kings, 
Who bought his Friendship with their holiest Things, 
Yields that a Sister, of his pow'rful Race, 
Should sway these Realms, and dignify the Place. 
Nor need we add the late insulting Foe, 



124 The Poems of Anne 

The furious Jehu does this Sceptre know, 
And sinks beneath the load of conscious Fears, 
When in Samaria he my Actions hears. 
Distrest by Foes, which I've against him rais'd,. 
He sees me unmolested, fix'd, and pleas'd; 30 

At least, till now thus glorious was my State ; 
But something's threatned from relaxing Fate, 
And the last Night, which shou'd have brought me Rest, 
Has all these great Ideas dispossest. 
A Dream, a Vision, an apparent View 
Of what, methinks, does still my Steps pursue, 
Hangs on my pensive Heart, and bears it down 
More than the weight of an objected Crown, 
My Mother (be the Name with Rev'rence spoke!) 
Ere chearful Day thro' horrid Shades had broke, 40 
Approach'd my Bed, magnificent her Dress, 
Her Shape, her Air did Jesabel confess: 
Nor seem'd her Face to have refus'd that Art, 
Which, in despite of Age, does Youth impart. 
And which she practis'd, scorning to decay, 
Or to be vanquish'd ev'n in Nature''s way. 
Thus all array'd, in such defying Pride 
As when th' injurious Conqu'ror she descry'd. 
And did in height of Pow'r for ill-got Pow'r deride. 
To me she spake, these Accents to me came: 50 

"Thou worthy Daughter of my soaring Fame, 
"Tho' with a more transcendent Spirit fiU'd, 
"Tho' struggling Pow'rs attempt thy Life to shield, 
"The Hebrew'' s God (Oh, tremble at the sound!) 
"Shall Thee and Them, and all their Rights confound. 
A pitying Groan concludes, no Word of Aid, 
My Arms I thought to throw about the Shade 
Of that lov'd Parent, but my troubled Sight 
No more directed them to aim aright. 



Countess of Winchilsea 125 

Nor ought presented, but a heap of Bones, 60 

For which fierce Dogs contended on the Stones, 
With Flakes of mangled Flesh, that qui v' ring still 
Proclaim'd the Freshness of the suffer'd 111; 
Distained with Blood the Pavement, and the Wall, 
Appear'd as in that memorable Fall 

Abner. 
Oh! just avenging Heaven! [aside. 

Mathan. 
Sure, Dreams like these are for Prevention given. 

LA PASSION VAINCUE 
Done into English with Liberty 

On the Banks of the Severn a desperate Maid 
(Whom some Shepherd, neglecting his Vows, had betray 'd,) 
Stood resolving to banish all Sense of the Pain, 
And pursue, thro' her Death, a Revenge on the Swain. 
Since the Gods, and my Passion, at once he defies; 
Since his Vanity lives, whilst my Character dies; 
No more (did she say) will I trifle with Fate, 
But commit to the Waves both my Love and my Hate. 
And now to comply with that furious Desire, 
Just ready to plunge, and alone to expire. 
Some Reflection on Death, and its Terrors untry'd. 
Some Scorn for the Shepherd, some Flashings of Pride 
At length pull'd her back, and she cry'd. Why this Strife, 
Since the Swains are so Many, and I've but One Life? 



126 The Poems of Anne 



AN EPISTLE FROM A GENTLEMAN TO MADAM 
DESHOULIERS 

Returning money she had lent him at Bassette, upon the first 
day of their acquaintance 

Translated with Liberty from the French 

URANIA, whom the Town admires, 

Whose Wit and Beauty share our Praise; 
This fair URANIA who inspires 

A thousand Joys a thousand ways, 
She, who cou'd with a Glance convey 

Favours, that had my Hopes outdone, 
Has lent me Money on that Day, 

Which our Acquaintance first begun. 
Nor with the Happiness I taste, 

Let any jealous Doubts contend: 10 

Her Friendship is secure to last, 

Beginning where all others end. 

And thou, known Cheat! upheld by Law, 

Thou Disappointer of the craving Mind, 
Bassette, who thy Original dost draw 

From Venice (by uncertain Seas confin'd) ; 
Author of Murmurs, and of Care, 

Of pleasing Hopes, concluding in Despair: 
To thee my strange Felicity I owe. 

From thy Oppression did this Succour flow. 20 
Less had I gained, had'st thou propitious been, 

Who better by my Loss hast taught me how to 
Win. 
Yet tell me, my transported Brain! 

(whose Pride this Benefit awakes) 
Know'st thou, what on this Chance depends? 

And are we nut exalted thus in vain, 



Countess of Winohilsea 127 

Whilst we observe the Money which she lends, 

But not, alas! the Heart she takes, 
The fond Engagements, and the Ties 

Her fatal Bounty does impose, 30 

Who makes Reprisals, with her Eyes, 

For what her gen'rous Hand bestows? 

And tho' I quickly can return 

Those useful Pieces, which she gave; 

Can I again, or wou'd I have 

That which her Charms have from me borne ? 

Yet let us quit th' obliging Score; 

And whilst we borrow'd Gold restore. 

Whilst readily we own the Debt, 

And Gratitude before her set 40 

In its approved and fairest Light; 
Let her effectually be taught 

By that instructive, harmless Slight, 
That also in her turn she ought 

(Repaying ev'ry tender Thought) 
Kindness with Kindness to requite. 

A SONG FOR A PLAY 

Alcander to Melinda 

More then a Sea of tears, can show, 

Or thousand sighs can prove. 
Then fault'ring speech, can lett you know, 

I fair Melinda love. 

You then, must to your self expresse 

The strength of my desire. 
Who brings the fewel, best may guesse, 

How great must be the fire. 



128 The Poems of Anne 

Think on the pow'r, that arms your eyes, 
The charms that in them shine, 

Think on their aptnesse to surprise. 
And of the love in mine. 

Then to my wishing looks afoard 
The heart for which they sue, 

And take a longing lovers word. 
That some men can be true. 

A SONG 
Melinda to Alcander 

Witt, as free, and unconfin'd 

As the universal air. 
Was not alotted to mankind. 

Leaving us, without our share ; 
No, we posesse alike that fire. 
And all you boast of, we inspire. 

Fancy, does from beauty rise. 
Beauty, teatches you to write. 

Your flames are borrow'd from our Eyes, 
You but speak, what they endite. 

Then cease to boast alone, that Fame. 

Witt, and love, we give and claime. 

A SONG 

By Love persu'd, In vain I fly 

To shades, as lost and wild as I ; 

Cold earth my hopes, sharp thorns my cares. 

Here lively paint, and urge my tears ; 

Fancy, makes all things bear a part. 

And shews a Rock, for Sylvia's heart. 



Countess of Winchilsea 129 

In vain, I from the object goe, 

Since my own thoughts, can wound me soe ; 

I'll back again, and ruin'd be 

By hate, by scorn, or Jealousie. 

Such real ills attend us all, 

Lovers, by fancy need not fall. 

A SONG 

Miranda, hides her from the Sun, 

Beneath those shady beaches nigh, 
Whilst I, by her bright rayes undone, 

Can no where for refreshment fly. 

In that fair grove, att height of noone. 

His fiercest glorys, she defies ; 
I have alas! such shelter, none. 

No safe umbrella, 'gainst her eyes. 

Thus, does th' unequal hand of fate 

Refuse itts' favours to devide, 
Giving to her, a safe retreat, 

And all ofensive arms beside. 

A SONG 

Whilst Thirsis, in his pride of youth 

To me alone, professt 
Dessembl'd passion, dress't like truth, 

He tryumph'd in my breast. 

I lodg'd him neer my yeilding heart, 

Deuy'd him but my arms, 
Deluded with his pleasing art. 

Transported with his charms. 



130 The Poems of Anne 

The wand'rer, now I loose, or share, 

With ev'ry lovly maid. 
Who make the hearts of men their care, 

Shall have their own, betray'd. 

Our charms on them we vainly prove, 
And boast we Conquests gain. 

Where one, a victime falls to love, 
A Thousand Tyrants reign. 

A SONG 

Persuade me not, there is a Grace 

Proceeds from Silvia^s Voice or Lute, 

Against Miranda's charming Face 
To make her hold the least Dispute. 

Musick, which tunes the Soul for Love, 
And stirs up all our soft Desires, 

Do's but the glowing Flame improve, 
Which pow'rful Beauty first inspires. 

Thus, whilst with Art she plays, and sings 

I to Miranda, standing by, 
Impute the Music of the Strings, 

And all the melting Words ai)ply 

JEALOUSY 
A Song 

Vain Love, why do'st thou boast of Wings, 
That cannot help thee to retire! 

When such quick Flames Suspicion brings. 
As do the Heart about tnoe fire. 

Still Swift to come, but when to go 
Thou shou'd'st be more — Alas! how Slow. 



Countess of Winohilsea 131 

Lord of the World must surely be 

But thy bare Title at the most; 
Since Jealousy is Lord of Thee, 

And makes such Havock on thy Coast, 

As do's thy pleasant Land deface, 
Yet binds thee faster to the Place. 



A SONG 

Love, thou art best of Human Joys, 

Our chief est Happiness below; 
All other Pleasures are but Toys, 
Musick without Thee is but Noise, 

And Beauty but an empty Show. 

Heav'n, who knew best what Man wou'd move, 
And raise his Thoughts above the Brute; 

Said, Let him Be, and let him Love; 

That must alone his Soul improve, 
Howe'er Philosophers dispute. 



A SONG 

Quickly, Delia, Learn my Passion, 
Lose not Pleasure, to be Proud; 

Courtship draws on Observation, 
And the Whispers of the Croud. 

Soon or late you'll hear a Lover, 
Nor by Time his Truth can prove; 

Ages won't a Heart discover, 
Trust, and so secure my Love. 



132 The Poems of Anne 



A SONG 

'Tis strange, this Heart within my breast, 
Reason opposing, and her Pow'rs, 

Cannot one gentle Moment rest. 

Unless it knows what's done in Yours. 

In vain I ask it of your Eyes, 

Which subt'ly would my Fears controul; 
For Art has taught them to disguise, 

Which Nature made t' explain the Soul. 

In vain that Sound, your Voice affords, 
Flatters sometimes my easy Mind; 

But of too vast Extent are Words 
In them the Jewel Truth to find. 

Then let my fond Enquiries cease, 
And so let all my Troubles end: 

For, sure, that Heart shall ne'er know Peace, 
Which on Anothers do's depend. 



A SONG 

The Nymph, in vain, bestows her pains. 
That seeks to thrive, where Bacchus reigns; 
In vain, are charms, or smiles, or frowns. 
All Immages his torrent drowns. 

Flames to the head he may impart. 
But makes an Island, of the heart; 
So inaccessible, and cold. 
That to be his, is to be old. 



Countess of Winchilsea 133 



A SONG 

If for a Woman I wou'd dye, 

It shou'd for Gloriana be, 
But lovers, you that talk so high, 
Inform, whilst in the Grave I lye 

What reward can reach to me ? 

If, I my freedom wou'd resign. 

That freedom, she alone shou'd have. 

But tell me, you that can define. 

If I, by Marriage, make her mine, 

Which may be call'd the greater slave? 

Then Gloriana, since 'tis plain 

Love, with these two, can n'er agree 

Since death and Mariage, are his bane. 

Those melancholy thoughts we'll flee. 
And chearfull Lovers, allways bee. 

A SONG 

Lett the fool still be true. 
And one object persue, 
And for ever be jealous, or dying, 
Whilst he that better knows, 
Will in Love, no time loose. 

For that God still, that God still, that God still is 
flying. 

Lett the heart that wants heat. 

But with one motion, beat, 

Least that flame shou'd decay, which they sever, 

But we, that boast of more, 

Can each Beauty adore. 

And love all, and love all, and love all, and for ever. 



134 The Poems of Anne 



MOKAL SONG 

Would we attain the happiest State, 

That is designed us here; 
No Joy a Rapture must create, 

No Grief beget Despair. 
No Injury fierce Anger raise. 

No Honour tempt to Pride; 
No vain Desires of empty Praise 

Must in the Soul abide. 
No Charms of Youth, or Beauty move 

The constant, settl'd Breast: 
Who leaves a Passage free to Love, 

Shall let in, all the rest. 
In such a Heart soft Peace will live, 

Where none of these abound; 
The greatest Blessing, Heav'n do's give, 

Or can on Earth be found. 

HONOUR 
A Song 

How dear is Reputation bought ! 

When we the purchace pay 
We sett the sweets of Life at nought 

And make our Joys away. 

One most belou'd we often loose 

To pacify the crou'd 
And even Complisance refuse 

Not to be Chast but proud. 

Though Honour which the World does awe 



And makes our Sex so nice 
3 self no Pedigree can draw 
But what's deriv'd from Vice. 



Countess op Winchilsea 135 

Thus Tyrants who Usurping rise 

To fix them in that wrong 
Do sharpest punishment Deuise 

For Crimes from whence they sprung. 



TIMELY ADVICE TO DORINDA 

Dorinda since you must decay 

Your lover now resign 
As Charles that Empire gave away 

He saw wou'd soon decline 

Tis better in the height of Power 

Thus with your Sway to part 
Then stay till that more fatal hour 

Of his revolted heart. 

For Witt but faintly will inspire 

Unless with Beauty joyn'd 
And when our Eyes have lost their fire 

Tis uselesse in the Mind. 

Be then advis'd and now remove 

All farther thoughts about itt. 
Sinch [sic^ youth we find's too short for Love 

Though Life's too long without itt. 



THE PHCENIX 

A Song 

A Female Friend advis'd a Swain 
(Whose Heart she wish'd at ease) 

Make Love thy Pleasure, not thy Pain, 
Nor let it deeply seize. 



136 The Poems op Anne 

Beauty, where Vanities abound, 

No serious Passion claims ; 
Then, 'till a Phoenix can be found, 

Do not admit the Flames. 

But griev'd She finds, that his Replies 
(Since prepossessed when Young) 

Take all their Hints from Silvia''^ Eyes, 
None from ARDELIA's Tongue. 

Thus, Cupid, of our Aim we miss. 

Who wou'd unbend thy Bow; 
And each slight Nymph a Phoenix is. 

When Love will have it so. 

HOPE 

The Tree of Knowledge we in Eden prov'd ; 
The Tree of Life was thence to Heav'n remov'd: 
Hope is the growth of Earth, the only Plant, 
Which either Heav'n, or Paradice cou'd want. 

Hell knows it not, to Us alone confin'd. 
And Cordial only to the Human Mind. 
Receive it then, t'expel these mortal Cares, 
Nor wave a Med'cine, which thy God prepares. 

LIFE'S PROGRESS 

How gayly is at first begun 

Our Lifers uncertain Race! 
Whilst yet that sprightly Morning Sun, 
With which we just set out to run 

Enlightens all the Place. 

How smiling the World's Prospect lies 
How tempting to go through! 



Countess of Winghilsea 137 

Not Canaan to the Prophet's Eyes, 
From Pisgah with a sweet Surprize, 
Did more inviting shew. 

How promising's the Book of Fate, 

Till thoroughly understood! 
"Whilst partial Hopes such Lots create, 
As may the youthful Fancy treat 

With all that's Great and Good. 

How soft the first Ideas prove, 

Which wander through our Minds! 
How full the Joys, how free the Love, 
Which do's that early Season move; 

As Flow'rs the Western Winds! 

Our Sighs are then but Vernal Air; 

But ^pr?7-drops our Tears, 
Which swiftly passing, all grows Fair, 
Whilst Beauty compensates our Care, 

And Youth each Vapour clears. 

But oh! too soon, alas, we climb; 

Scarce feeling we ascend 
The gently rising Hill of Time, 
From whence with Grief we see that Prime, 

And all its Sweetness end. 

The Die now cast, our Station known. 

Fond Expectation past; 
The Thorns, which former Days had sown, 
To Crops of late Repentance grown, 

Thro' which we toil at last. 

Whilst ev'ry Care's a driving Harm, 
That helps to bear us down; 



138 The Poems op Anne 

Which faded Smiles no more can charm, 
But ev'ry Tear's a Winter-Storm, 
And ev'ry Look's a Frown. 

Till with succeeding Ills opprest. 

For Joys we hop'd to find; 
By Age too, rumpl'd and undrest, 
We gladly sinking down to rest, 

Leave following Crouds behind. 

A SIGH 

Gentlest Air thou breath of Lovers 

Vapour from a secret fire 
Which by thee itts self discovers 

E're yett daring to aspire. 

Softest Noat of whisper'd anguish 

Harmony's refindest part 
Striking whilst thou seem'st to languish 

Full upon the list'ners heart. 

Safest Messenger of Passion 

Stealing through a crou'd of spys 

Which constrain the outward fassion 
Close the Lips and guard the Eyes. 

Shapelesse Sigh we ne're can show thee 
Form'd bat to assault the Ear 

Yett e're to their cost they know thee 
Ev'ry Nymph may read thee here. 

C^SAR AND BRUTUS 

Though Cnesar falling, shew'd no sign of fear, 
Yett Brutus, when thou did'st appear, 
When thy false hand, against him came, 



Countess of Winchilsea 139 

He vail'd his face, to hide that shame 
Which did on the mistake attend, 
Of having own'd thee, for his freind. 

AN EPISTLE 
From Alexander to HEPHiESTioN in His Sickness 
With such a Pulse, with such disorder'd Veins, 
Such lab'ring Breath, as thy Disease constrains; 
With failing Eyes, that scarce the Light endure, 
(So long unclos'd, they've watch'd thy doubtful Cure) 
To his Hephcestion Alexander writes. 
To soothe thy Days, and wing thy sleepless Nights, 
I send thee Love: Oh! that I could impart, 
As well my vital Spirits to thy Heart! 
That, when the fierce Distemper thine wou'd quell. 
They might renew the Fight, and the cold Foe repel. 10 

As on ArhelcC^ Plains we turn'd the Day, 
y^\\en Persians through our Troops had mow'd their way, 
When the rough Scythians on the Plunder run. 
And barb'rous Shouts proclaim'd the Conquest won, 

'Till o'er my Head (to stop the swift Despair) 
The Bird of Jove fans the supporting Air, 
Above my Plume does his broad Wings display. 
And follows wheresoe'er I force my way: 
Whilst Aristander, in his Robe of White, 
Shews to the wav'ring Host th' auspicious Sight; 20 
New Courage it inspires in ev'ry Breast, 
And wins at once the Empire of the East. 
Cou'd He, but now, some kind Presage afford. 
That Health might be again to Thee restor'd; 
Thou to my Wishes, to my fond Embrace; 
Thy Looks the same, the same Majestick Grace, 
That round thee shone, when we together went 
To chear the Royal Captives in their Tent, 



140 The Poems of Anne 

Where Sysigamhis, prostrate on the Floor, 

Did Alexander in thy Form adore ; 30 

Above great ^sculapius shou'd he stand, 

Or made immortal by Apelles Hand. 

But no reviving Hope his Art allows, 

And such cold Damps invade my anxious Brows, 

As, when in Cydnus plung'd, I dar'd the Flood 

T' o'er-match the Boilings of my youthful Blood. 

But Philip to my Aid repaired in haste ; 

And whilst the proffer'd Draught I boldly taste. 

As boldly He the dangerous Paper views. 

Which of hid Treasons does his Fame accuse. 40 

More thy Physician's Life on Thine depends. 

And what he gives, his Own preserves, or ends. 

If thou expir'st beneath his fruitless Care, 

To Rhadamantlius shall the Wretch repair. 

And give strict Answer for his Errors there. 

Near thy Pavilion list'ning Princes wait. 
Seeking from thine to learn their Monarch'' s State. 
Submitting Kings, that post from Day to Day, 
To keep those Crowns, which at my Feet they lay, 
Forget th' ambitious Subject of their Speed, 50 

And here arriv'd, only Thy Dangers heed. 
The Beauties of the Clime, now Thou'rt away. 
Droop, and retire, as if their God of Day 
No more upon their early Pray'rs would shine, 
Or take their Incense, at his late Decline. 
Thy Parisatis whom I fear to name, 
Lest to thy Heat it add redoubl'd Flame; 
Thy lovely Wife, thy Parisatis weeps. 
And in her Grief a solemn Silence keeps. 
Stretch'd in her Tent, upon the Floor she lies, 60 

So pale her Looks, so motionless her Eyes, 



Countess of Winchilsea 141 

As when they gave thee leave at first to gaze 
Upon the Charms of her unguarded Face ; 
When the two beauteous Sisters lowly knelt, 
And su'd to those, who more than Pity felt. 
To chear her now Statira vainly proves, 
And at thy Name alone she sighs, and moves. 

But why these single Griefs shou'd I expose ? 
The World no Mirth, no War, no Bus'ness knows. 
But, hush'd with Sorrow stands, to favour thy Repose. 70 
Ev'n I my boasted Title now resign, 
Not Ammon''ii Son, nor born of Race Divine, 
But Mortal all, oppress'd with restless Fears, 
Wild with my Cares, and Womanish in Tears. 
Tho' Tears, before, I for lost Clytus shed. 
And wept more Drops, than the old Hero bled ; 
Ev'n now, methinks, I see him on the Ground, 
Now my dire Arms the wretched Corpse surround, 
Now the fled Soul I wooe, now rave upon the Wound. 
Yet He, for whom this mighty Grief did spring, 80 

Not Alexander valu'd, but the King. 
Then think, how much that Passion must transcend, 
Which not a Subject raises but a Friend: 
An equal Partner in the vanquished Earth, 
A Brother, not impos'd upon my Birth, 
Too weak a Tye unequal Thoughts to bind. 
But by the gen'rous Motions of the Mind. 
My Love to thee for Empire was the Test, 
Since him, who from Mankind cou'd chuse the best. 
The Gods thought only fit for Monarch o'er the rest. 90 
Live then, my Friend; but if that must not be, 
Nor Fate will with my boundless Mind agree, 
Affording, at one time, the World and Thee; 
To the most Worthy I'll that Sway resign, 
And in Elysium keep Hyphcestion mine. 



142 The Poems of Anne 

FRAGMENT AT TUNBRIDGE- WELLS 

For He, that made, must new create us, 

Ere Seneca, or Epictetus, 

With all their serious Admonitions, 

Can, for the Spleen, prove good Physicians. 

The Heart's unruly Palpitation 

Will not be laid by a Quotation; 

Nor will the Spirits move the lighter 

For the most celebrated Writer. 

Sweats, Swoonings, and convulsive Motions 

Will not be cur'd by Words, and Notions. 

Then live, old Brown! with thy Chaly beats, 

Which keep us from becoming Idiots. 

At Tunbridge let us still be Drinking, 

Though 'tis ih'' Antipodes to Thinking: 

Such Hurry, whilst the Spirit's flying, 

Such Stupefaction, when 'tis dying: 

Yet these, and not sententious Papers, 

Must brighten Life, and cure the Vapours, &c. 

THE PRODIGY 

A poem written at Tunbridge ivells Anno 1706, on the admira- 
tion that many expressed at a Gentleman's being in love, 
and their endeavours to dissuade him from it, with some 
advice to the young Ladies, how to main[tain^ their riatural 
prerogative 

Protect the State, and let Old England thrive. 
Keep all crown' d heads this wondrous year alive ; 
Preserve our palaces from wind and flame, 
Safe be our fleets, and be the Scotchmen tame ; 
Avert, kind fate, whate'er th' event might prove, 
For here's a prodigy, a man in love ! 
Wasted and pale, he languishes in sight. 



Countess op Winchilsea 143 

And spends in am'rous verse the sleepless night ; 
While happier youths, with colder spirits born, 
View the distress with pity or with scorn, 10 

And maids so long unus'd to be ador'd 
Think it portends the pestilence or sword. 

How chang'd is Britain to the blooming fair," 
Whom now the men no longer make their care ; 
But of indifference arrogantly boast, 
And scarce the wine gets down some famous toast ! 
Not so (as still declare their works) it prov'd 
When Spencer, Sydney, and when Waller lov'd, 
Who with soft numbers wing'd successful darts, 
Nor thought the passion lessning to their parts ; 20 
Then let such patterns countenance his fire. 
Whom love and verse do now afresh inspire, 
'Gainst all who blame or at the fate admire ; 
And learn the nymphs, how to regain their sway. 
And make this stubborn sex once more obey ; 
Call back the fugitives by modest pride, 
And let them fear sometimes to be deny'd ; 
Stay 'till their courtship may deserve that name, 
And take not ev'ry look for love and flame ; 
To mercenary ends no charms imploy, 30 

Nor stake their smiles against some rafled toy : 
For every fop lay not th' insnaring train, 
Nor lose the worthy to allure the vain. 
Keep at due distance all attempts of bliss. 
Nor let too near a whisper seem a kiss. 
Be not the constant partner of a swain, 
Except his long address that favor gain ; 
Nor be transported when some trifle's view. 
Directs his giddy choice to fix on you. 
Amend whatever may your charms disgrace, 40 

And trust not wholly to a conquering face. 



144 The Poems of Anne 

Nor bo your motions rude, coquet or wild, 

Shuffling or lame, as if in nursing spoil' d : 

Slight not th' advantage of a graceful mein, 

Tho' Paris gave the prize to beauty's Queen, 

When Juno mov'd, Venus could scarce be seen : 

And if to fashions past you can't submit, 

Pretend at least to some degree of wit ; 

The men who fear now with it to accost 

Still love the name, tho' you've the habit lost. 50 

Assert your pow'r in early days begun. 

Born to undo, be not yourselves undone, 

Contemn' d, and cheap, as easy to be won. 

If thus, like Sov' reigns you maintain your ground, 

The rebells at your feet will soon be found ; 

And when with wise authority you move, 

No new surprise, no prodigy will prove. 

To see one man, or the whole race in love. 

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE 

Between Two Shepherdesses 
Silvia 
Pretty Nymph! within this shade, 
Whilst the Flocks to rest are laid, 
Whilst the World dissolves in Heat, ■ 
Take this cool, and flow'ry Seat: 
And with pleasing Talk awhile 
Let us two the Time beguile; 
Tho' thou here no Shepherd see, 
To encline his humble Knee, 
Or with melancholy Lays 
Sing thy dangerous Beauty's Praise. 10 

Dorinda 
Nymph! with thee I here woii'd stay, 
But have heard, that on this Day, 



Countess of Winchilsea 145 

Near those Beeches, scarce in view, 
All the Swains some Mirth pursue: 
To whose meeting now I haste. 
Solitude do's Life but waste. 

Silvia 
Prithee, but a Moment stay. 

Dorinda 
No! my Chaplet wou'd decay; 
Ev'ry drooping Flow'r wouM mourn. 
And wrong the Face, they shou'd adorn. 20 

Silvia 
I can tell thee, tho' so Fair, 
And dress'd with all that rural Care, 
Most of the admiring Swains 
Will be absent from the Plains. 
Gay Sylvander in the Dance 
Meeting with a shrew'd Mischance, 
To his Cabin's now confin'd 
By Mopsus, who the Strain did bind: 
Damon through the Woods do's stray. 
Where his Kids have lost their way: 30 

Young Narcissus iv'ry Brow 
Rac'd by a malicious Bough, 
Keeps the girlish Boy from sight, 
Till Time shall do his Beauty right. 

Dorinda 
Where's Alexis P 

Silvia 

He, alas!' 
Lies extended on the Grass; 
Tears his Garland, raves, despairs, 
Mirth and Harmony forswears; 



146 The Poems of Anne 



Since he was this Morning shown, 

That Delia must not be his Own. 40 

Dorinda 
Foolish Swain! such Love to place. 

Silvia ^ 

On any but DorindcCs Face. 

Dorinda 
Hasty Nymph ! I said not so. 

Silvia 

No but I thy Meaning know. 

Ev'ry Shepherd thou wou'd'st have 

Not thy Lover, but thy Slave; 

To encrease thy captive Train, 

Never to be lov'd again. 

But, since all are now away, 50 

Prithee, but a Moment stay. 

Dorinda 

No; the Strangers, from the Vale, 
Sure will not this Meeting fail; 
Graceful one, the other Fair. 
He too, with the pensive Air, 
Told me, ere he came this way 
He was wont to look more Gay. 

Silvia 

See! how Pride thy Heart inclines 

To think, for Thee that Shepherd pines; 

When those Words, that reach'd thy Ear, 

Cliloe was designed to hear; 60 

Chloe, who did near thee stand, 

And his more speaking Looks command. 



Countess of Winchilsea 147 

Dorinda 
Now thy Envy makes me smile. 
That indeed were worth his while: 
Chloe next thyself decay 'd, 
And no more a courted Maid. 

Silvia 
Next myself! Young Nymph, forbear. 
Still the Swains allow me Fair, 
Tho' not what I was that Day, 
When Colon bore the Prize away; 70 

When 

Dorinda 
Oh, hold! that Tale will last, 



Till all the Evening Sports are past; 

Till no Streak of Light is seen, 

Nor Footstep prints the flow'ry Green. 

What thou wert, I need not know, 

What I am, must haste to show. 

Only this I now discern 

From the things, thou'd'st have me learn. 

That Woman-kincV s peculiar Joys 

From past, or present Beauties rise. 80 

THE CAUTIOUS LOVERS 

Silvia, let's from the Croud retire; 

For, What to you and me 
(Who but each other do desire) 
Is all that here we see? 

Apart we'll live, tho' not alone; 

For, who alone can call 
Those, who in Desarts live with One, 

If in that One they've All? 



148 The Poems of Anne 

The World a vast Meander is, 

Where Hearts confus'dly stray; 10 

Where Few do hit, whilst Thousands miss 

The happy mutual Way: 

, Where Hands are by stern Parents ty'd, 

Who oft, in Cupid's Scorn, 
Do for the widow'd State provide, 
Before that Love is born: 

Where some too soon themselves misplace; 

Then in Another find 
The only Temper, Wit, or Face, 

That cou'd affect their Mind. 20 

Others (but oh ! avert that Fate ! ) 

A well-chose Object change: 
Fly, Silvia, fly, ere 'tis too late; 

Fall'n Nature's prone to range. 

And, tho' in heat of Love we swear 

More than perform we can; 
No Goddess^ You, but Woman are, 

And I no more than Man. 

Th' impatient Silvia heard thus long; 

Then with a Smile reply'd: 30 

Those Bands cou'd ne'er be very strong, 

Which Accidents divide. 

Who e'er was mov'd yet to go down. 

By such o'er-cautious Fear; 
Or for one Lover left the Town, 

Who might have Numbers here? 

Your Heart, 'tis true, is worth them all. 

And still preferr'd the first; 
But since confess'd so apt to fall, 

'Tis good to fear the worst. 40 



Countess of Winchilsea 14:9 

In ancient History we meet 

A flying Nymph betray'd; 
Who, had she kept in fruitful Crete, 

New Conquest might have made. 

And sure, as on the Beach she stood. 

To view the parting Sails; 
She curs'd her self, more than the Flood, 

Or the conspiring Gales. 

False Theseus, since thy Vows are broke, 

May following Nymphs beware : 50 

Methinks I hear how thus she spoke. 
And will not trust too far. 

In Love, in Play, in Trade, in War 

They best themselves acquit. 
Who, tho'' their Inf rests shipwreckt are, 

Keep unreprov'd their Wit. 



ADAM POS'D 

Cou'd our First Father, at his toilsome Plough, 
Thorns in his Path, and Labour on his Brow, 
Cloath'd only in a rude, unpolish''d Skin, 
Cou'd he a vain Fantastick Nymph have seen, 
In all her Airs, in all her antick Graces, 
Her various Fashions, and more various Faces ; 
How had it pos'd that Skill, which late assign'd 
Just Appellations to Each several Kind! 
A right Idea of the Sight to frame ; 
T'have guest from what New Element she came ; 
T'have hit the wav'ring Form, or giv'n this Thing a 
Name. 



150 The Poems of Anne 

RALPH'S REFLECTIONS 

Upon the Anniversary of his Wedding 

This day, sais Ralpho, I was free, 

'Till one unlucky hour 
And some few mutter'd words by me, 

Put freedom past my pow'r. 

Th' expressions I remember well, 

For better or for worse, 
Till death us part, I take thee Nell, 

(That is I take a Purse.) 

'Tis Gold, must make that Pill go down, 

The Priest without his Fee, 
Nor simple Clerk, but for half-crown 
Would Execution see. 

Rubands, and Gloves, the standers by 
To patience must encline. 

Besides the hopes of a supply 
Of Bisquits, and of Wine. 

The Friends that wait us to our Beds, 

(Who could no longer cross itt) 
But throw our stockins at our heads, 
Or drown us with a Posset. 

Oh! happy state of human life. 

If Mariage be thy best! 
Poor Ralpho cry'd, yet kiss't his Wife, 

And no remorse confess' t. 

THE UNEQUAL FETTERS 

Cou'd we stop the time that's flying 
Or recall itt when 'tis past 



Countess of Winghilsea 151 



Put far off the day of Dying 

Or make Youth for ever last 
To Love wou'd then be worth our cost. 

But since we must loose those Graces 
Which at first your hearts have wonne 

And you seek for in new Faces 
When our Spring of Life is done 

It wou'd but urdge our ruine on 

Free as Nature's first intention 
Was to make us, I'll be found 

Nor by subtle Man's invention 
Yeild to be in Fetters bound 

By one that walks a freer round. 

Mariage does but slightly tye Men 
Whil'st close Prisoners we remain 

They the larger Slaves of Hymen 
Still are begging Love again 

At the full length of all their chain. 



ALCIDOR 

While Monarchs in stern Battle strove 

For proud Imperial Sway ; 
Abandoned to his milder Love, 
Within a silent peaceful Grove, 

Alcidor careless lay. 

Some term'd it cold, unmanly Fear; 

Some, Nicety of Sense, 
That Drums and Trumpets cou'd not hear, 
The sullying Blasts of Powder bear, 

Or with foul Camps dispense. 10 



152 The Poems of Anne 

A patient Martyr to their Scorn, 

And each ill-fashion'd Jest; 
The Youth, who but for Love was born, 
Remained, and thought it vast Return, 

To reign in CloricCs Breast. 

But oh! a ruffling Soldier came 

In all the Pomp of War: 
The Gazettes long had spoke his Fame; 
Now Hautboys his Approach proclaim, 

And draw in Crouds from far. 20 

Cloria unhappily wou'd gaze; 

And as he nearer drew. 
The Man of Feather and of Lace 
Stopp'd short, and with profound Amaze 

Took all her Charms to view. 

A Bow, which from Campaigns he brought, 

And to his Holsters low. 
Herself, and the Spectators taught, 
That Her the fairest Nymph he thought, 

Of all that form'd the Row. 30 

Next day, ere Phoebus cou'd be seen. 

Or any Gate unbarr'd; 
At hers, upon th' adjoining Green,- 
From Ranks, with waving Flags between, 

Were soften' d Trumpets heard. 

The Noon do's following Treats provide. 

In the Pavilion's Shade; 
The Neighbourhood, and all beside, 
That will attend the amorous Pride, 

Are welcom'd with the Maid. 40 



Countess of Winchilsea 153 

Poor Alcidor! thy hopes are cross'd, 

Go perish on the Ground; 
Thy Sighs by stronger Notes are toss'd, 
Drove back, or in the Passage lost; 

Rich Wines thy Tears have drown' d. 

In Women^s Hearts, the softest Things 

Which Nature cou'd devise, 
Are yet some harsh, and jarring Strings, 
That, when loud Fame, or Profit rings, 

Will answer to the Noise. 50 

Poor Alcidor! go Fight or Dye; 
Let thy fond Notions cease: 
Man was not made in Shades to lie, 
Or his full Bliss, at ease, enjoy, 
To Live, or Love in peace. 



THE CRITICK AND THE WRITER OF FABLES 

Weary, at last, of the Pindarick way. 

Thro' which advent'rously the Muse wou'd stray; 

To Fable I descend with soft Delight, 

Pleas'd to Translate, or easily Endite: 

Whilst aery Fictions hastily repair 

To fill my Page, and rid my Thoughts of Care, 

As they to Birds and Beasts new Gifts impart, 

And Teach, as Poets shou'd, whilst they Divert. 

But here, the Critick bids me check this Vein. 
Fable, he crys, tho' grown th' affected Strain, 10 

But dies, as it was born, without Regard or Pain. 
Whilst of his Aim the lazy Trifler fails, 
Who seeks to purchase Fame by childish Tales. 



154 The Poems of Anne 

Then, let my Verse, once more attempt the Skies, 

The easily persuaded Poet cries. 

Since meaner Works you Men of Taste despise. 

The Walls of Trou shall be our loftier Stage, 

Our mighty Theme the fierce Achilles Rage. 

The Strength of Hector, and Ulysses Arts 

Shall boast such Language, to adorn their Parts, 20 

As neither Hobbes, nor Chapman cou'd bestow, 

j Or did from Congreve, or from Dryden flow. 

I Amidst her Towers, the dedicated Horse 

Shall be receiv'd, big with destructive Force; 

Till Men shall say, when Flames have brought her 

down. 
"Troy is no more, and Ilium ivas a Town. 

Is this the way to please the Men of Taste, 

The Interrupter cries, this old Bombast? 

I'm sick of Troy, and in as great a Fright, 

When some dull Pedant wou'd her Wars recite, 30 

As was soft Paris, when compell'd to Fight. 

To Shades and Springs shall we awhile repair. 
The Muse demands, and in that milder Air 
Describe some gentle Swain's unhappy Smart 
Whose folded Arms still press upon his Heart, 
And deeper drive the two far enter'd Dart? 
Whilst Phillis with a careless pleasure reigns 
The Joy, the Grief, the Envy of the Plains; 
Heightens the Beauty of the verdant Woods, 
And softens all the Murmurs of the Floods. 40 

Oh! stun mo not with these insipid Dreams, 
Th' Eternal Hush, the Lullaby of Streams. 
Which still, he cries, their even Measures keep, 
Till both the Writers, and the Readers sleep. 



Countess of Winchilsea 155 

But urge thy Pen, if tliou wouldst move our Thoughts, 
To shew us private, or the publick Faults. 
Display the Times, High-Church or Low provoke; 
Well praise the Weapon, as we like the Stroke, 
And warmly sympathizing with the Spite 
Apply to Thousands, what of One you write. 50 

Then, must that single Stream the Town supply, 
The harmless i^a6?c-writer do's reply, 
And all the Rest of Helicon be dry? 
And when so many choice Productions swarm. 
Must only Satire keep your Fancies warm? 
Whilst even there, you praise with such Reserve, 
As if you'd in the midst of Plenty starve, 
Tho' ne'er so liberally we Authors carve. 

Happy the Men, whom we divert with Ease, 

Whom Opera's and Panegyricks please. 60 

A MILLER, HIS SON, AND THEIR ASS 
A Fable Translated from Monsieur de la Fontaine 

Tho' to Antiquity the Praise we yield 

Of pleasing Arts; and Fable's earli'st Field 

Own to be fruitful Greece; yet not so clean 

Those Ears were reap'd, but still there's some to glean ; 

And from the Lands of vast Invention come 

Daily new Authors, with Discov'ries home. 

This curious Piece, which I shall now impart, 
Fell from Malherhe, a Master in his Art, 
To Racan, fiU'd with like poetick Fire, 
Both tuneful Servants of Apollo''s Choir, 10 

Rivals and Heirs to the Horatian Lyre: 
Who meeting him, one Day, free and alone, 
(For still their Thoughts were to each other known) 



156 The Poems of Anne 

Thus ask'd his Aid — Some useful Counsel Give, 

Thou who, by living long, hast learnt to live ; 

Whose Observation nothing can escape; 

Tell me, how I my course of Life shall shape: 

To something I wou'd fix ere't be too late. 

You know my Birth, my Talents, my Estate; 

Shall I with these content, all Search resign, 20 

And to the Country my Desires confine? 

Or in the Court, or Camp, advancement gain? 

The World's a mixture of Delight and Pain: 

Tho' rough it seems, there's Pleasure in the Wars, 

And HymevbS Joys are not without their Cares. 

I need not ask, to what my Genius tends. 

But wou'd content the World, the Court, my Friends. 

Please all the World (in haste) Malherhe replies? 
How vain th' Attempt will prove in him, that tries. 
Learn from a Fable, I have somewhere found, 30 
Before I answer all that you propound. 

A Miller and his Son (the Father old, 
The Boy about some fifteen Years had told) 
Designed their Ass to sell, and for the Fair, 
Some distance ofp, accordingly prepare. 
But lest she in the walk should lose her Flesh, 
And not appear, for Sale, so full and fresh. 
Her Feet together ty'd; between them two 
They heav'd her up; and on the Rusticks go: 
Till those, who met them bearing thus the Ass, 40 
Cry'd, Are these Fools about to act a Farce? 
Surely the Beast (howe'er it seem to be) 
Is not the greatest Ass of all the Three. 
The Miller in their Mirth his Folly finds. 
And down he sets her, and again unbinds ; 
And tho' her grumbling shew'd, she lik'd much more 



Countess of Winchilsea 157 

The lazy way, she travell'd in before, 
He minds her not ; but up the Boy he sets 
Upon her Back, and on the Crupper gets. 
Thus on they jog, when of Three Men that pass'd, 50 
The eldest thinking Age to be disgraced, 
Call'd to the Youth, ho! you, young Man for shame! 
Come down, lest Passengers your Manners blame, 
And say, it ill becomes your tender Years 
To ride before a Grandsire with grey Hairs. 
Truly, the Gentlemen are in the right. 
The Miller cries, and makes the Boy alight; 
Then forward slides himself into his place, 
And with a Mind content, renews his pace: 
But much he had not gain'd upon his way, 60 

Before a Troop of Damsels, neat and gay, 
(Partial to Youth) to one another cry'd. 
See, how with walking by that Dotard's side. 
The Boy is tir'd; whilst with a Prelate's state 
He rides alone, and dangling in the Seat, 
Hangs like a Calf thrown up, across the Beast. 
The Miller, thinking to have spoiled that Jest, 
Reply'd, he was too Old for Veal to pass, 
But after more on him, and on his Ass, 
He stands convinc'd, and takes his Son again 70 

To ride at ease himself, still next the Mane. 
Yet ere he'd thirty Paces borne the Lad, 
The next they met, cry'd — Are these Fellows mad! 
Have they no Pity thus t'o'erload the Jade! 
Sure, at the Fair, they for her Skin may trade. 
See, how's she spent, and sinks beneath their strokes! 
The itfi7Zer, whom this most of all provokes. 
Swears by his Cap, he shews his want of Brains, 
Who thus to please the World, bestows his Pains. 
Howe'er we'll try, if this way't may be done; 80 



158 The Poems of Anne 

And off he comes, and fetches down his Son. 

Behind they walk, and now the Creature drive, 

But cou'd no better in their Purpose thrive ; 

Nor scape a Fellow's Censure, whom they meet, 

That cries, to spare the Ass they break their Feet ; 

And whilst unladen at her ease she goes, 

Trudge in the Dirt, and batter out their Shooes; 

As if to burthen her they were afraid. 

And Men for Beasts, not Beasts for Men were made. 

The Proverb right. The Cart before the Horse. 90 

The Miller, finding things grow worse and worse. 

Cries out, I am an Ass, it is agreed, 

And so are all, who wou'd in this succeed. 

Hereafter, tho' Reproof or Praise I find, 

I'll neither heed, but follow my own Mind, 

Take my own Counsel, how my Beast to sell. 

This he resolv'd, and did it, and did well. 

For you, Sir, Follow Love, the Court, the War; 
Obtain the Crosier, or the City's Furrj 
Live single all your days, or take a Wife; 100 

Trust me, a Censure waits each state of Life. 

THE WIT AND THE BEAU 

Strephon, whose Person ev'ry Qrace 

Was careful to adorn; 
Thought, by the Beauties of his Face, 
In Silvia's Love to find a place, 

And wonder'd at her Scorn. 

With Bows, and Smiles he did his Part; 

But Oh! 'twas all in vain: 
A Youth less Fine, a Youth of Art 
Had talk'd himself into her Heart, 

And wou'd not out aefain. 



Countess of Winchilsea 159 



Strephon with change of Habits press' d, 

And urg'd her to admire; 
His Love alone the Other dress' d, 
As Verse, or Prose became it best, 

And mov'd her soft Desire. 

This found, his courtship Strephon ends, 

Or makes it to his Glass; 
There, in himself now seeks amends, 
Convinc'd, that where a Wit pretends, 

A Bean is but an Ass. 

CUPID AND FOLLY 

Imitated from the French 

Cupid, ere depriv'd of Sight, 
Xoung and apt for all Delight, 
Met with Folly on the way. 
As Idle and as fond of Play. 
In gay Sports the time they pass ; 
Now run, now wrestle on the Grass ; 
Their painted Wings then nimbly ply, 
And ev'ry way for Mast'ry try: 
'Till a Contest do's arise. 

Who has won th' appointed Prize. 10 

Gentle Love refers the Case 
To the next, that comes in Place ; 
Trusting to his flatt'ring Wiles, 
And softens the Dispute with Smiles. 
But Folly, who no Temper knows. 
Words pursues with hotter Blows: 
'Till the eyes of Love were lost. 
Which has such Pain to Mortals cost. 
Venus hears his mournful Crys, 
And repeats 'em, in the Skys, 



20 



160 The Poems of Anne 

To Jupiter in Council set, 

With Peers for the Occasion met; 

In her Arms the Boy she bears, 

Bathing him in falling Tears; 

And whilst his want of eyes is shown, 

Secures the Judges by her Own. 

Follij to the Board must come, 

And hear the Tryal and the Doom ; 

Which Cytherea loudly prays 

May be as heavy as the Case: 30 

Which, when All was justly weigh' d, 

Cupid' s Wings now useless made. 

That a staff, his Feet must guide. 

Which wou'd still be apt to slide; 

This Decree at last was read, 

That Love by Folly shou'd be lead. 

LOVE, DEATH, AND REPUTATION 

Reputation, Love, and Death, 
(The Last all Bones, the First all Breath, 
The Midd'st compos'd of Restless Fire) 
From each other wou'd Retire; 
Thro' the World resolv'd to stray, 
Every One a several Way ; 
Exercising, as they went. 
Each such Power, as Fate had lent; 
Which, if it united were. 

Wretched Mortals cou'd not bear: 10 

But as parting Friends do show, 
To what Place they mean to go. 
Correspondence to engage. 
Nominate their utmost Stage; 
Death declar'd he wou'd be found 



Countess of Winchilsea 161 

Near the fatal Trumpet's sound; 

Or where Pestilences reign, 

And Quacks the greater Plagues maintain; 

Shaking still his sandy Glass, 

And mowing Human Flesh, like Grass. 20 

Love, as next his Leave he took, 

Cast on both so sweet a Look, 

As their Tempers near disarm'd. 

One relax' d, and t'other warm'd; 

Shades for his Retreat he chose, 

Rural Plains, and soft Repose; 

Where no Dowry e'er was paid, 

Where no Jointure e'er was made; 

No 111 Tongue the Nymph perplex'd, 

Where no Forms the Shepherd vex'd ; 30 

Where Himself shou'd be the Care, 

Of the Fond and of the Fair: 

Where that was, they soon should know, 

Au Revoir! then turn'd to Go. 

Reputation made a Pause, 

Suiting her severer Laws; 

Second Thoughts, and Third she us'd. 

Weighing Consequences mus'd; 

When, at length to both she cry'd: 

You Two safely may Divide, 40 

To th' Antipodes may fall. 

And re-ascend th' encompast Ball ; 

Certain still to meet asfen 

In the Breasts of tortur'd Men; 

Who by One (too far) betray'd, 

Call in t'other to their Aid: 

Whilst I Tender, Coy, and Nice, 

Rais'd and ruin'd in a Trice, 

Either fix with those I grace, 



162 The Poems of Anne 

Or abandoning the Place, 50 

No Return my Nature bears, 
From green Youth, or hoary Hairs; 
If thro' Guilt, or Chance, I sever, 
I once Parting, Part for ever. 

THE KING AND THE SHEPHERD 

Imitated from the French 

Through ev'ry Age some Tyrant Passion reigns: 

Now Love prevails, and now Ambition gains 

Reason's lost Throne, and sov'reign Rule maintains. 

Tho' beyond Love's, Ambition's Empire goes; 

For who feels Love, Ambition also knows. 

And proudly still aspires to be possest 

Of Her, he thinks superior to the rest. 

As cou'd be prov'd, but that our plainer Task 

Do's no such Toil, or Definitions ask; 

But to be so rehears'd, as first 'twas told, 10 

When such old Stories pleas'd in Days of old. 

A King, observing how a ShephercFs Skill 
Improv'd his Flocks, and did the Pastures fill, 
That equal Care th' assaulted did defend, 
And the secur'd and grazing Part attend, 
Approves the Conduct, and from Sheep and Curs 
Transfers the Sway, and changed his Wool to Furrs. 

Lord-Keeper now, as rightly he divides 

His just Decrees, and speedily decides ; 

When his sole Neighbour, whilst he watch'd the Fold, 

A Hermit poor, in Contemplation old, 21 

Hastes to his Ear, with safe, but lost Advice, 

Tells him such Heights are levell'd in a trice. 

Preferments treach'rous, and her Paths of Ice: 



Countess of Winchilsea 163 

And that already sure 't had turn'd his Brain, 

Who thought a Prince's Favour to retain. 

Nor seem'd unlike, in this mistaken Rank, 

The sightless Wretch who froze upon a Bank 

A Serpent found, which for a Staff he took, 

And us'd as such ( his own but lately broke) 30 

Thanking the Fates, who thus his Loss supply'd. 

Nor marking one, that with amazement cry'd. 

Throw quickly from thy Hand that sleeping 111; 

A Serpent 'tis, that when awak'd will kill. 

A Serpent this! th' uncautioned Fool replies: 

A Staff it feels, nor shall my want of eyes 

Make me believe, I have no Senses left, 

And thro' thy Malice be of this bereft ; 

Which Fortune to my Hand has kindly sent 

To guide my Steps, and stumbling to prevent, 40 

No Staff, the Man proceeds ; but to thy harm 

A Snake 'twill prove: The Viper, now grown warm. 

Confirmed it soon, and fastened on his Arm. 

Thus wilt thou find, Shepherd believe it true. 
Some 111, that shall this seeming Good ensue; 
Thousand Distastes, t' allay thy envy'd Gains, 
Unthought of, on the parcimonious Plains. 
So prov'd the Event, and Whisp'rers now defame 
The candid Judge, and his Proceedings blame. 
By Wrongs, they say, a Palace he erects, 50 

The Good oppresses, and the Bad protects. 
To view this Seat the King himself prepares, 
Where no Magnificence or Pomp appears, 
But Moderation, free from each Extream, 
Whilst Moderation is the Builder's Theme. 
Asham'd yet still the Sycophants persist. 
That Wealth he had conceal'd within a Chest, 



16-4 The Poems of Anne 

Which but attended some convenient Day, 

To face the Sun, and brighter Beams display. 

The Chest unbarr'd, no radiant Gems they find, 60 

No secret Sums to foreign Banks design'd, 

But humble Marks of an obscure Recess, 

Emblems of Care, and Instruments of Peace; 

The Hook, the Scrip, and for unblam'd Delight 

The merry Bagpipe, which, ere fall of Night, 

Cou'd sympathizing Birds to tuneful Notes invite. 

Welcome ye Monuments of former Joys! 

Welcome! to bless again your Master's Eyes, 

And draw from Courts, th' instructed Shepherd cries. 

No more dear Relicks ! we no more will part, 70 

You shall my Hands employ, who now revive my Heart. 

No Emulations, or corrupted Times 

Shall falsly blacken, or seduce to Crimes 

Him, whom your honest Industry can please, 

Who on the barren Down can sing from inward Ease. 

How's this! the Monarch something mov'd rejoins. 
With such low Thoughts, and Freedom from Designs, 
What made thee leave a Life so fondly priz'd, 
To be in Crouds, or envy'd, or despis'd ? 

Forgive me, Sir, and Humane Frailty see, 80 

The Swain replies, in my past State and Me ; 
All peaceful that, to which I vow return. 
But who alas! (tho' mine at length I mourn) 
Was e'er without the Curse of some Ambition born. 

THERE'S NO TO-MORROW 
A Fable imitated from Sir Roger L' Estrange 

Two long had Lov'd, and now the Nymph desir'd, 
Tho Cloak of Wedlock, as the Case requir'd; 
Urg'd that, the Day he wrought her to this Sorrow, 



Countess of Winchilsea 165 

He Vow'd, that he wou'd marry her To-Morrow. 
Agen he Swears, to shun the present Storm, 
That he, To-Morrow, will that Vow perform. 
The Morrows in their due Successions came; 
Impatient still on Each, the pregnant Dame 
Urg'd him to keep his Word, and still he swore the same. 
When tir'd at length, and meaning no Kedress, 10 

But yet the Lye not caring to confess. 
He for his Oath this Salvo chose to borrow. 
That he was Free, since there was no To-Morrowj 
For when it comes in Place to be employ'd, 
'Tis then To-Day j To-Morrow' s ne'er enjoy'd. 
The Tale's a Jest, the Moral is a Truth; 
To-Morrow and To-Morrow, cheat our Youth: 
In riper Age, To-Morrow still we cry. 
Not thinking, that the present Day we Dye ; 
Unpractis''d all the Good ive had Design'd; 20 

There'' s No To-Morrow to a Willing Mind 

JUPITER AND THE FARMER 

When Poets gave their God in Crete a Birth, 
Then Jupiter held Traffick with the Earth, 
And had a Farm to Lett: the Fine was high, 
For much the Treas'ry wanted a Supply, 
By Danae's wealthy Show'r exhausted quite, and dry. 
But Mercery, who as Steward kept the Court, 
So rack'd the Rent, that all who made Resort 
Unsatisfy'd return'd, nor could agree 
To use the Lands, or pay his secret Fee ; 
'Till one poor Clown (thought subt'ler than the rest, 10 
Thro' various Projects rolling in his Breast) 
Consents to take it, if at his Desire 
All Weathers tow'rds his Harvest may conspire; 
The Frost to kill the Worm, the brooding Snow, 



166 The Poems of Anne 

The filling Rains may come, and Phcebus glow. 

The Terms accepted, sign'd and seal'd the Lease, 

His Neighbours Grounds afford their due Encrease 

The Care of Heav'n; the Owner's Cares may cease. 

Whilst the new Tenant, anxious in his Mind, 

Now asks a Show'r, now craves a rustling Wind 20 

To raise what That had lodg'd, that he the Sheaves may 

bind. 
The Sun, th'o'er-shadowing Clouds, the moistning Dews 
He with such Contrariety does chuse ; 
So often and so oddly shifts the Scene, 
Whilst others Load, he scarce has what to Glean. 

O Jupiter! with Famine pinch'd he cries, 
No more will I direct th' unerring Skies; 
No more my Substance on a Project lay, 
No more a sullen Doubt I will betray, 
Let me but live to Reap, do Thou appoint the way. 30 

FOR THE BETTER 
Imitated from Sir Roger V Estrange 

A Quack, to no true Skill in Physick bred, 
With frequent visits cursed his Patient's Bed; 
Enquiring, how he did his Broths digest. 
How chim'd his Pulse, and how he took his Rest: 
If shudd'ring Cold by Burnings was pursu'd, 
And at what time the Aguish Fit renew' d. 
The waining Wretch, each day become more faint, 
In like proportion doubles his Complaint; 
Now swooning Sweats he begs him to allay. 
Now give his Lungs more liberty to play, 10 

And take from empty'd Veins these scorching Heats 
away: 



Countess of Wixchilsea 167 

Or if he saw the Danger did increase, 

To warn him fair, and let him part in Peace. 

My Life for yours, no Hazard in your Case 

The Quack replies; your Voice, your Pulse, your 

Face, 
Good Signs afford, and what you seem to feel 
Proceeds from Vapours, which we'll help with Steel. 
With kindled Rage, more than Distemper, burns 
The suff'ring Man, who thus in haste returns: 
No more of Vapours, your belov'd Disease, 20 

Your Ignorance's Skreen, your Wliat-yon-plcase, 
With which you cheat poor Females of their Lives, 
Whilst Men dispute not, so it rid their Wives. 
For me, I'll speak free as I've paid my Fees; 
My Flesh consumes, I perish by degrees: 
And as thro' weary Nights I count my Pains, 
No Rest is left me, and no Strength remains. 
All for the Better, Sir, the Quack rejoins: 
Exceeding promising are all these Signs. 
Falling-away, your Nurses can confirm, 30 

Was ne'er in Sickness thought a Mark of Harm. 
The want of Strength is for the Better still ; 
Since Men of Vigour Fevers soonest kill. 
Ev'n with this Gust of Passion I am pleas'd; 
For they're most Patient who the most are seiz'd. 
But let me see! here's that which all repels: 
Then shakes, as he some formal Story tells, 
The Treacle- water, mixt with powder'd Shells. 
My Stomach's gone (what d'you infer from thence?) 
Nor will with the least Sustenance dispense. 40 

The Better; for, where appetite endures. 
Meats intermingle, and no Med'cine cures. 

The Stomach, you must know. Sir, is a Part 

But, sure, I feel Death's Pangs about my Heart. 



168 The Poems of Anne 

Nay then Farewell! I need no more attend 
The Quack replies. A sad approaching Friend 
Questions the Sick, why he retires so fast; 
Who says, because of Fees I've paid the Last, 
And, whilst all Symptoms tow'rd my Cure agree, 
Am, for the Better, Dying as you see. 50 

THE JESTER AND THE LITTLE FISHES 
A FABLE 

Immitated from the French 

Far, from Societies where I haue place 
Be all half Witts, and Acters of grimace; 
Buffoons, and Mimmicks, quoters of old saws, 
The easy purchasers of dull Applause; 
Still, plagues to men of true, but modest sence. 
Who, must not take, though Jesters give offence; 
Nor, yett, oppose the Laughers, and the cry. 
And but by Silence, their assent deny. 

A Jester, was the man, of whom we treate 

Though now, more Innocent was his conceit 10 

And, not for mischeif utter'd but for meat. 

Receiv'd a Guest, at such a plenteous Board 

As did of Fish, all rarities affoard. 

It griev'd him sore, that next to him were plac'd 

By chance, or malice, but the worst and least, 

Whilst, at the upper end, his greedy Eye 

Survey'd such Fish, as Killigrew might buy; 

A Smelt at length, from out his slender cheer 

He draws, and seems to whisper in itts ear; 

Does then another, and another, take, 20 

And with them all, in private, feigns to speak. 

The luckyer feeders, for a moment ceas'd, 



Countess of Winghilsea 169 

To penetrate the meaning of the jest; 

No jest, he cries, but forreign news I try 

To learn, by conuersation with the Fry, 

A Scott, my Friend, some Akers had of Land, 

Which, since no Corn, nor Tree wou'd on them stand. 

He turn'd to pounds, and thought his fortune made 

By joyning in the Caledonian Trade; 

So, cross'd the waves, but now, sad rumours come 30 

Th' unhappy youth, abroad has found his Doom; 

To know the truth, and sett my thoughts att ease, 

I question'd with these Pigmies of the Seas, 

Who modestly reply, with loosen'd tongue, 

For Dariens Istmus they were far too yong. 

Nor from the Slioar, a League cou'd hard'ly keep; 

But, send me, to those Monsters of the Deep, 

Which round the World a yearly course maintain 

Till now, here dress'd, they swim in sawce again, 

Cou'd I, but speak, with one of those full-grown, 40 

My Friend's disaster might be thoroughly known; 

Whether, detain'd by Death, by want, or wind, 

The Project broke, he stayes so long behind? 

None, need demand, if his invention took. 

Who for his teeth, thus made his tongue the hook. 

A Jest, well tim'd, though from a worthless Man 

Often obtains, more then true merit can. 

THE ATHEIST AND THE ACORN 

Methinks this World is oddly made, 

And ev'ry thing's amiss, 
A dull presuming Atheist said, 
As stretch'd he lay beneath a Shade; 

And instanced in this: 

Behold, quoth he, that mighty thing, 
A Pumpkin, large and round. 



170 The Poems of Anne 

Is held but by a little String, 
Which upwards cannot make it spring, 
Or bear it from the Ground. 

Whilst on this Oak, a Fruit so small. 
So disproportion'd, grows; 

That, who with Sence surveys this All, 

This universal Casual Ball, 

Its ill Contrivance knows. 

My better Judgment wou'd have hung 

That Weight upon a Tree, 
And left this Mast, thus slightly strung, 
'Mongst things which on the Surface sprung. 
And small and feeble be. 

No more the Caviller cou'd say, 
Nor farther Faults descry; 
For, as he upwards gazing lay. 
An Acorn, loosen'd from the Stay, 
Fell down upon his Eye. 

Th' offended Part with Tears ran o'er. 

As punish'd for the Sin: 
Fool! had that Bough a Pumpkin bore. 
Thy Whimseys must have work'd no more, 

Nor Scull had kept them in. 

THE PKEVALENCE OF CUSTOM 

A Female, to a Drunkard marry'd. 
When all her other Arts miscarry'd, 
Had yet one Stratagem to prove him, 
And from good Fellowship remove him; 
Finding him overcome with Tipple, 
And weak, as Infant at the Nipple, 



Countess of Winchilsea 171 

She to a Vault transports the Lumber, 

And there expects his breaking Slumber. 

A Table she with Meat provided, 

And rob'd in Black, stood just beside it; 10 

Seen only, by one glim' ring Taper, 

That blewly burnt thro' misty Vapor. 

At length he wakes, his Wine digested, 

And of her Phantomship requested, 

To learn the Name of that close Dwelling, 

And what offends his Sight and Smelling; 

And of what Land she was the Creature, 

With outspread Hair, and ghastly Feature ? 

Mortal, quoth she, (to Darkness hurry'd) 

Know, that thou art both Dead and Bury'd; 20 

Convey' d, last Night, from noisie Tavern, 

To this thy still, and dreary Cavern. 

What strikes thy Nose, springs from the Shatters 

Of Bodies kill'd with Cordial Waters, 

Stronger than other Scents and quicker, 

As urg'd by more spirituous Liquor. 

My self attend on the Deceas'd, 

When all their Earthly Train's releas'd; 

And in this Place of endless Quiet, 

My Bus'ness is, to find them Diet; 30 

To shew all sorts of Meats, and Salades, 

Till I'm acquainted with their Palates; 

But that once known, then less suffices. 

Quoth he (and on his Crupper rises) 

Thou Guardian of these lower Regions, 

Thou Providor for countless Legions, 

Thou dark, but charitable Crony, 

Far kinder than my Tisiphony, 

Who of our Victuals thus art Thinking, 

If thou hast Care too of our Drinking, 40 



172 The Poems of Anne 

A Bumper fetch: Quoth she, a Holier 
Since nothing less thy Tone can alter, 
Or break this Habit thou'st been getting. 
To keep thy Throat in constant wetting. 

THE MUSSULMAN'S DREAM OF THE VIZIER AND 

DERVIS 

Where is that World, to which the Fancy flies. 
When Sleep excludes the Present from our Eyes; 
Whose Map no Voyager cou'd e'er design, 
Nor to Description its wild Parts confine? 
Yet such a Land of Dreams We must allow. 
Who nightly trace it, tho' we know not how: 
Unfetter' d by the Days obtruded Rules, 
We All enjoy that Paradise of Fools; 
And find a Sorrow, in resuming Sense, 
Which breaks some free Delight, and snatches us 
from thence. 10 

Thus! in a Dream, a Mussulman was shown 
A Vizir, whom he formerly had known. 
When at the Port he bore deputed Sway, 
And made the Nations with a Nod obey. 
Now all serene, and splendid was his Brow, 
Whilst ready Waiters to his Orders bow; 
His Residence, an artful Garden seem'd, 
Adorn'd with all, that pleasant he esteem'd; 
Full of Reward, his glorious Lot appear'd. 
As with the Sight, our Dreamer's Mind was chear'd; 
But turning, next he saw a dreadful Sight, 21 

Which fill'd his Soul with Wonder and Affright, 
Pursu'd by Fiends, a wretched Dervis fled 
Through scorching Plains, which to wide Distance 
spread ; 



Countess of Winchilsea 173 

Whilst every Torture, gloomy Poets paint, 

Was there prepar'd for the reputed Saint. 

Amaz'd at this, the sleeping Turk enquires, 

Why He that liv'd above, in soft Attires, 

Now roU'd in Bliss, while t'other roll'd in Fires? 

We're taught the Suff'rings of this Future State, 30 

Th' Excess of Courts is likeliest to create; 

Whilst solitary Cells, o'ergrown with Shade, 

The readiest way to Paradise is made. 

True, quoth the Phantom (which he dream'd reply'd) 

The lonely Path is still the surest Guide, 

Nor is it by these Instances deny'd. 

For, know my Friend, whatever Fame report, 

The Vizier to Retirements wou'd Resort, 

Th' ambitious Dervis wou'd frequent the Court. 

THE SHEPHERD PIPING TO THE FISHES 

A Shepherd seeking with his Lass 

To shun the Heat of Day; 
Was seated on the shadow'd Grass, 
Near which a flowing Stream did pass, 

And Fish within it play. 

To Phillis he an Angle gave. 

And bid her toss the Line; 
For sure, quoth he, each Fish must have, 
Who do's not seek to be thy Slave, 

A harder Heart than mine. 

Assemble here you watry Race, 

Transportedly he cries; 
And if, when you behold her Face, 
You e'er desire to quit the Place, 

You see not with my Eyes. 



174 The Poems of Anne 

But you, perhaps, are by the Ear, 

More easie to be caught; 
If so, I have my Bagpipe here. 
The only Musick that's iKjt dear, 

Nor in great Cities bought. 

So sprightly was the Tune he chose, 

And often did repeat; 
That Phillis, tho' not up she rose, 
Ke])t time with every thrilling Close, 

And jigg'd upon her Seat. 

But not a Fish wou'd nearer draw, 

No Harmony or Charms, 
Their frozen Blood, it seems, cou'd thaw, 
Nor all they heard, nor all they saw 

Cou'd woo them to such Terms. 

The angry Shepherd in a Pett, 

Gives o'er his wheedling Arts, 
And from his Shoulder throws the Net, 
Resolv'd he wou'd a Supper get 
By Force, if not by Parts. 

Thus sUited Laws are alivdj/s best 

To rule the vulgar TJiroiig, 
Who grow more Stubborn when Carest,- 
Or with soft Rhetorick addrest, 
If taking Pleasures wrong. 

THE DECISION OF FORTUNE 
A Fable 

Fortune well Pictured on a rolling Globe, 
With waving Locks, and thin transparent Robe, 
A Man beholding, to his Neighbour cry'd. 



Countess of Winchilsea 175 

Whoe'er would catch this Dame, must swiftly ride. 

Mark, how she seems to Fly, and with her bears, 

All that is worth a busie MortaPs Cares: 

The gilded Air about her Statue shines. 

As if the Earth had lent it all her Mines; 

At random Here a Diadem she flings. 

And There a scarlet Hat with dangling Strings, 10 

And to ten Thousand Fools ten Thousand glorious 

Things. 
Shall I then stay at Home, Dull and Content 
With Quarter-Days, and hard extorted Rent? 
No, I'll to Horse, to Sea, to utmost Isles, 
But I'll encounter her propitious Smiles: 
Whilst you in slothful Ease may chuse to Sleep, 
And scarce the few Paternal Acres keep. 
Farewel, reply'd his Friend, may you advance, 
And grow the Darling of this Lady Chance: 
Whilst I indeed, not courting of her Grace, 20 

Shall dwell content, in this my Native Place, 
Hoping I still shall for your Friend be known: 
But if too big for such Acquaintance grown, 
I shan't be such a fond mistaken Sot, 
To think Remembrance should become my Lot; 
When you Exalted, have your self Forgot. 
Nor me Ambitious ever shall you find, 
Or hunting Fortune, who, they say, is Blind: 
But if her Want of Sight shou'd make her Stray, 
She shou'd be Welcome, if she came this Way. 30 

'Tis very like (the Undertaker cry'd) 
That she her Steps to these lost Paths shou'd guide: 
But I lose Time, whilst I such Thoughts deride. 
Away he goes, with Expectation chear'd. 
But when his Course he round the World had steer'd, 
And much had borne, and much had hop'd and fear'd, 



176 The Poems of Anne 

Yet cou'd not be inform'd where he might find 

This fickle Mistress of all Human-kind: 

He quits at length the Chace of flying Game, 

And back as to his Neighbor's House he came, 40 

He there encounters the uncertain Dame; 

Who lighting from her gaudy Coach in haste. 

To him her eager Speeches thus addrest. 

Fortune behold, who has been long pursu'd, 

Whilst all the Men, that have my Splendors view'd, 

Madly enamour'd, have such Flatt'ries forg'd, 

And with such Lies their vain Pretensions urg'd, 

That Hither I am fled to shun their Suits, 

And by free Choice conclude their vain Disputes ; 

Whilst I the Owner of this Mansion bless, 50 

And he unseeking Fortune shall possess. 

Tho' rightly charg'd as something Dark of Sight, 

Yet Merit, when 'tis found, is my Delight; 

To Knaves and Fools, when I've some Grace allow' d, 

'T has been like scattering Money in a Croud, 

To make me Sport, as I beheld them strive, 

And some observ'd (thro' Age) but Half- Alive ; 

Scrambling amongst the Vigorous and Young, 

One proves his Sword, and One his wheedling Tongue, 

All striving to obtain me right or wrong: 60 

Whilst Crowns, and Crosiers in the Contest hurl'd, 

« 
Shew'd me a Farce in the contending World. 

Thou wert deluded, whilst with Ship, or Steed, 

Thou lately didst attempt to reach my Speed, 

And by laborious Toil, and endless Pains, 

Didst sell thy Quiet for my doubtful Gains: 

Whilst He alone my real Fav'rite rises, 

Wlio every Thing to its just Value prizes. 

And neither courts, nor yet my Gifts despises. 



Countess of Winchilsea 177 



THE BRASS-POT, AND STONE-JUGG 
A Fable 

A Brazen Pot, by scouring vext, 

With Beef and Pudding still perplext, 

Resolv'd t' attempt a nobler Life, 

Urging the Jugg to share the Strife: 

Brother, quoth he, (Love to endear) 

Why shou'd We Two continue here, 

To serve and cook such homely Cheer? 

Who tho' we move with awkward pace. 

Your stony Bowels, and my Face, 

Abroad can't miss of Wealth and Place. 10 

Then let us instantly be going. 

And see what in the World is Doing. 

The bloated Jugg, supine and lazy. 

Who made no Wish, but to be easy. 

Nor, like it's Owner, e'er did think 

Of ought, but to be fill'd with Drink; 

Yet something mov'd by this fine Story, 

And frothing higher with Vain-glory, 

Eeply'd, he never wanted Metal, 

But had not Sides, like sturdy Kettle, 20 

That in a Croud cou'd shove and bustle. 

And to Preferment bear the Justle ; 

When the first Knock would break His Measures, 

And stop his Rise to Place and Treasures. 

Sure (quoth the Pot) thy Scull is thicker. 

Than ever was thy muddiest Liquor: 

Go I not with thee, for thy Guard, 

To take off Blows, and Dangers ward? 

And hast thou never heard, that Cully 

Is borne thro' all by daring Bully ? 30 

Your self (reply' d the Drink-conveigher) 



178 The Poems of Anne 

May be my Ruin and Betrayer: 

A Superiority you boast, 

And dress the Meat, I biit the Toast: 

Than mine your Constitution's stronger 

And in Fatigues can hold out longer; 

And shou'd one Bang from you be taken, 

I into Nothing shou'd be shaken. 

A (Pautre cry'd the Pot in scorn, 

Dost think, there's such a Villain born, 40 

That, when he proffers Aid and Shelter, 

Will rudely fall to Helter-Skelter? 

No more, but follow to the Road, 

Where Each now drags his pond'rous Load, 

And up the Hill were almost clamber'd, 

When (may it ever be remember'd!) 

Down rolls the Jiigg, and after rattles 

The most perfidious of all Kettles; 

At every Molehill gives a Jump, 

Nor rests, till by obdurate Thump, 50 

The Pot of Stone, to shivers broken, 

Sends each misguided Fool a Token: 

To show them, by this fatal Test, 

That Equal Company is best. 

Where none Oppress, nor are Opprest. 

THE OWL DESCRIBING HER YOUNG ONES 

Why was that baleful Creature made, 

Which seeks our Quiet to invade. 

And screams ill Omens through the Shade? 

'Twas, sure, for every Mortals good, 
When, by wrong painting of her Brood, 
She doom'd them for the Eagle's Food: 



\ 



Countess of Winohilsea 179 

Who proffer'd Safety to her Tribe, 
Wou'd she but shew them or describe, 
And serving him, his Favour bribe. 

When thus she did his Highness tell ; 10 

In Looks my Young do all excel, 
Nor Nightingales can sing so well. 

You'd joy to see the pretty Souls, 
With wadling Steps and frowzy Poles, 
Come creeping from their secret Holes. 

But I ne'er let them take the Air, 
The Fortune-hunters do so stare; 
And Heiresses indeed they are. 

This ancient Yew three hundred Years, 

Has been possess'd by Lineal Heirs: 20 

The Males extinct, now All is Theirs. 

I hope I've done their Beauties right, 
Whose Eyes outshine the Stars by Night; 
Their Muffs and Tippets too are White. 

The King of Cedars wav'd his Power, 
And swore he'd fast ev'n from that Hour, 
Ere he'd such Lady Birds devour. 

Th' Agreement seal'd, on either part, 

The Owl now promis'd, from her Heart 

All his Night- Dangers to divert ; 30 

As Centinel to stand and Whoop, 
If single Fowl, or Shoal, or Troop 
Should at his Palace aim or stoop. 

But home, one Evening without Meat, 
The Eagle comes, and takes his Seat, 
Where they did these Conditions treat. 



180 The Poems of Anne 

The Mother-Owl was prol'd away, 
To seek abroad for needful Prey, 
And forth the Misses came to play. 

What's here ! the hungry Monarch cry'd, 40 

"When near him living Flesh he spy'd, 
With which he hop'd to be supply'd. 

But recollecting, 'twas the Place, 
Where he'd so lately promis'd Grace 
To an enchanting, beauteous Race; 

He paus'd a while, and kept his Maw, 
With sober Temperance, in awe. 
Till all their Lineaments he saw. 

What are these Things, and of what Sex, 

At length he cry'd, with Vultur's Becks, 50 

And Shoulders higher than their Necks? 

These wear no Palatines, nor Muffs, 
Italian Silks, or Doyley Stuffs, 
But motley Callicoes, and Ruffs. 

Nor Brightness in their Eyes is seen. 
But through the Film a dusky Green, 
And like old Margery is their Mien. 

Then for my Supper they're designed, 

Nor can be of that lovely Kind, 

To whom my Pity was inclin'd. 60 

No more Delays; as soon as spoke. 

The Plumes are stripped, the Grisles broke, 

And near the Feeder was to choak. 

When now return'd the grizly Dame, 
(Whose Family was out of Frame) 
Against League-Breakers does exclaim. 



Countess of Winchilsea 181 



How! quoth the Lord of soaring Fowls, 
(Whilst horribly she wails and howls) 
Were then your Progeny but Owls? 

I thought some Phce^iix was their Sire, 70 

Who did those charming Looks inspire. 
That you'd prepar'd me to admire. 

Upon your self the Blame be laid ; 
My Talons you've to Blood betray'd, 
And ly'd in every Word you said. 

Faces or Books, beyond their Worth extolVd, 
Are censur'^d most, mid thus to pieces pulVd. 

THE PHILOSOPHER, THE YOUNG MAN, AND HIS 
STATUE 

A Fond Athenian Mother brougrht 
A Sculptor to indulge her Thought, 

And carve her Only Son ; 
Who to such strange perfection wrought, 
That every Eye the Statue caught 

Nor ought was left undone. 

A youthful Smile adorn' d the Face, 
The polish gave that Smile a Grace ; 

And through the Marble reigns 
(Which well the Artist's Skill cou'd trace, 
And in their due Positions place) 

A Thread of purple Veins. 

The Parasites about it came, 
(Whose Praises were too large to name) 

And to each other said ; 
The Man so well had reach' d his Aim, 
Th' Original cou'd o'er it claim 

Only a native Red. 



182 The Poems of Anne 

Mean while a Sage, amidst the Croud, 
Thus, with a Precept wise and loud, 

Check'd the Vain-glorious Boy; 
By telling him, who now grew proud, 
That tho' with Beauty 'twas endow'd. 

The Figure was a Toy: 

Of no Advantage to the State, 
'Twou'd neither combate, nor debate, 

But idly stand alone ; 
Bids him beware, whilst Men create 
In Stone thus his Resemblance great, 

He prove not like the stone. 

THE HOG, THE SHEEP, AND GOAT, CAKRYING TO A 

FAIR 

Who does not wish, ever to judge aright, 

And, in the Course of Life's Affairs, 
To have a quick, and far extended Sight, 
Tho' it too often multiplies his Cares? 
And who has greater Sense, but greater Sorrow shares? 

This felt the Swine, now carrying to the Knife ; 

And whilst the Lamb and silent Goat 
In the same fatal Cart lay void of Strife, 
He widely stretches his foreboding Throat, 
Deaf'ning the easy Crew with his outragious Note. 

The angry Dinger chides th'unruly Beast, 

And bids him all this Noise forbear; 
Nor be more loud, nor clamorous than the rest. 
Who -with him travel'd to the neighb'ring Fair. 
And quickly sliou'd arrive, and be unfetter' d there. 

This, quoth the Swine, I do believe, is true. 
And see we're very near the Town; 



Countess of Winchilsea 183 

Whilst these poor Fools of short, and bounded View, 
Think 'twill be well, when you have set them down, 
And eas'd One of her Milk, the Other of her Gown. 

But all the dreadful Butchers in a Row, 

To my far-searching Thoughts appear. 
Who know indeed, we to the Shambles go, 

Whilst I, whom none but Belzebuh wou'd shear. 
Nor but his Dam wou'd milk, must for my Carcase fear. 

But tell me then, will it prevent thy Fate? 

The rude unpitying Farmer cries; 
If not, the Wretch who tastes his suff'rings late, 

Not He, who thro' th'unhappy Future prys. 
Must of the Two be held most Fortunate and Wise. 

THE SHEPHERD AND THE CALM 

Soothing his Passions with a warb'ling Sound, 
A Shepherd-Swain lay stretch'd upon the Ground; 
Whilst all were mov'd, who their Attention lent. 
Or with the Harmony in Chorus went, 
To something less than Joy, yet more than dull Content. 
(Between which two Extreams true Pleasure lies, 
O'er-run by Fools, unreach'd-at by the Wife) 
But yet, a fatal Prospect to the Sea 
Wou'd often draw his greedy Sight away. 
He saw the Barques unlading on the Shore, 10 

And guess'd their Wealth, then scorn'd his little Store. 
Then wou'd that Little lose, or else wou'd make it more. 
To Merchandize converted is the Fold, 
The Bag, the Bottle, and the Hurdles fold; i 

The Dog was chang'd away, the pretty Shell 
Whom he had fed, and taught, and lov'd so well. 
In vain the Phillis wept, which heretofore 



184 The Poems of Anne 

Receiv'd his Presents, and his Garlands wore. 

False and upbraided, he forsakes the Downs, 

Nor courts her Smiles, nor fears the Ocean's Frowns. 20 

For smooth it lay, as if one single Wave 

Made all the Sea, nor Winds that Sea cou'd heave ; 

Which blew no more than might his Sails supply : 

Clear was the Air below, and Phoebus laugh' d on high. 

With this Advent'rer ev'ry thing combines, 

And Gold to Gold his happy Voyage joins ; 

But not so prosp'rous was the next Essay, 

For rugged Blasts encounter'd on the way, 

Scarce cou'd the Men escape, the Deep had all their 

Prey. 
Our broken Merchant in the Wreck was thrown 30 

Upon those Lands, which once had been his own; 
Where other Flocks now pastur'd on the Grass, 
And other Cory dons had woo'd his Lass. 
A Servant, for small Profits, there he turns, 
Yet thrives again, and less and less he mourns; 
Re-purchases in time th'abandon'd Sheep, 
Which sad Experience taught him now to keep. 
When from that very Bank, one Halcyon Day, 
On which he lean'd, when tempted to the Sea, 
He notes a Calm ; the Winds and Waves were still, 40 
And promis'd what the Winds nor Waves fulfill, 
A settl'd Quiet, and Conveyance sure, 
To him that Wealth, by Traffick, wou'd procure. 
But the rough part the Shepherd now performs, 
Reviles the Cheat, and at the Flatt'ry storms. 
Ev'n thus (quoth he) you seem'd all Rest and Ease, 
You sleeping Tempests, you untroubl'd Seas, 
That ne'er to be forgot, that luckless Hour, 
In which I put my Fortunes in your Pow'r; 
Quitting my slender, but secure Estate, 50 



Countess of Winchilsea 185 

My undisturb'd Repose, my sweet Retreat, 
For Treasures which you ravish' d in a Day, 
But swept my Folly, with my Goods, away. 
Then smile no more, nor these false Shews employ, 
Thou momentary Calm, thou fleeting Joy; 
No more on me shall these fair Signs prevail, 
Some other Novice may be won to Sail, 
Give me a certain Fate in the obscurest Vale. 

THE LORD AND THE BRAMBLE 

To view his stately Walks and Groves, 

A Man of Pow'r and Place 
Was hast'ning on; but as he roves. 
His Foe the slighted Bramble proves, 

And stops his eager Pace. 

That Shrub was qualify'd to Bite; 

And now there went a Tale, 
That this injurious partial Wight 
Had bid his Gard'ner rid it quite. 

And throw it o'er the Pail. 

Often the Brifr had wish'd to speak, 

That this might not be done; 
But from the Abject and the Weak, 
Who no important Figure make. 

What Statesman does not run? 

But clinging now about his Waste, 

Ere he had time to fly, 
My Lord (quoth he) for all your haste, 
I'll know why I must be displac'd, 

And 'mongst the Rubbish lie. 

Must none but buffle-headed Trees 
Within your Ground be seen ? 



186 The Poems of Anne 

Or tap' ring Yews here court the Breeze, 
That, like some Beaux whom Time does freeze, 
At once look Old and Green? 

I snarl, 'tis true, and sometimes scratch 

A tender-footed Squire; 
Who does a rugged Tartar catch. 
When me he thinks to over-match, 

And jeers for my Attire. 

As to Yourself, who 'gainst me fret, 

E'en give this Project o'er: 
For know, where'er my Root is set, 
These rambling Twigs will Passage get, 

And vex you more and more. 

No Wants, no Threatnings, nor the Jail 

Will curb an a^igry Wit: 
Then think not to chastise, or rail; 
Appease the Man, if you* d prevail. 

Who some sharp Satire writ. 

THE HOUSE OF SOCRATES 

For Socrates a House was built. 

Of but inferiour Size ; 
Not highly Arch'd, nor Carv'd, nor Gilt; 

The Man, 'tis said, was Wise. 

But Mob despis'd the little Cell, 
That struck them with no Fear; 
^ Whilst Others thought, there should not dwell 

So great a Person there. 

How shou'd a due Recourse be made 

To One, so much Admir'd? 
Where shou'd the spacious Cloth be laid. 

Or where the Guests retir'd? 



Countess of Winchilsea 187 

Believe me, quoth the listening Sage, 

'Twas not to save the Charge; 
That in this over-building Age, 

My House was not more large. 

But this for faithful Friends, and kind, 

Was only meant by me; 
Who fear that what too streight you find, 

Must yet contracted be. 

THE YOUNG RAT AND HIS DAM, THE COCK AND 
THE CAT 

No Cautions of a Matron, Old and Sage, 

Young Kattlehead to Prudence cou'd engage; 

But forth the Offspring of her Bed wou'd go, 

Nor reason gave, but that he wou'd do so. 

Much Counsel was, at parting, thrown away, 

Ev'n all, that Mother-Rat to Son cou'd say; 

Who follow'd him with utmost reach of Sight, 

Then, lost in Tears, and in abandon'd Plight, 

Turn'd to her mournful Cell, and bid the World Good 

Night. 
But Fortune, kinder than her boding Thought, 10 

In little time the Vagrant homewards brought, 
Eais'd in his Mind, and mended in his Dress, 
Who the Bel-air did every way confess. 
Had learnt to flow'r his Wigg, nor brusht away 
The falling Meal, that on his Shoulders lay ; 
And from a Nutshell, wimbl'd by a Worm, 
Took Snuff, and cou'd the Government reform. 
The Mother, weeping from Maternal Love, 
To see him thus prodigiously improve. 
Expected mighty Changes too, within, 20 

And Wisdom to avoid the Cat, and Gin. 



188 The Poems of Anne 



Whom did you chiefly note, Sweetheart, quoth she. 

Of all the Strangers you abroad did see? 

Who grac'd you most, or did your Fancy take ? 

The younger Rat than curs'd a noisy Rake, 

That barr'd the best Acquaintance he cou'd make ; 

And fear'd him so, he trembl'd ev'ry Part; 

Nor to describe him, scarce cou'd have the Heart. 

High on his Feet (quoth he) himself he bore. 

And terribly, in his own Language, swore ; 30 

A feather'd Arm came out from either Side, 

Which loud he clapp'd, and Combatants defy'd. 

And to each Leg a Bayonette was ty'd: 

And certainly his Head with Wounds was sore ; 

For That, and both his Cheeks a Sanguine Colour wore. 

Near Him there lay the Creature I admir'd. 

And for a Friend by Sympathy desir'd : 

His Make, like Ours, as far as Tail and Feet, 

With Coat of Furr in parallel do meet ; 

Yet seeming of a more exalted Race, 40 

Tho' humble Meekness beautify 'd his Face: 

A purring Sound compos'd his gentle Mind, 

Whilst frequent Slumbers did his Eye-lids bind; 

Whose soft, contracted Paw lay calmly still, 

As if unus'd to prejudice, or kill. 

I paus'd a while, to meditate a Speech, 

And now was stepping just within his reach ; 

When that rude Clown began his hect'ring Cry, 

And made me for my Life, and from th' Attempt to fly. 

Indeed 'twas Time, the shiv'ring Beldam said, 50 

To scour the Plain, and be of Life afraid. 

Thou base, degen'rate Seed of injur'd Rats, 

Thou veriest Fool (she cry'd) of all my Brats; 

Would'st thou have shaken Hands with hostile Cats, 

And dost not yet thine Own, and Country's Foe, 



Countess of Winchilsea 189 

At this expence of Time, and Travel know? 

Alas! that swearing, staring, bullying Thing, 

That tore his Throat, and blustered with his Wing, 

Was but some paltry, Dunghill, Craven Cock, 

Who serves the early Household for a Clock. 60 

And We his Oats, and Barley often steal, 

Nor fear, he shou'd revenge the pilfer'd Meal: 

Whilst that demure, and seeming harmless Puss 

Herself, and mewing Chits regales with Us. 

If then, of useful sense thou'st gain'd no more, 

Than ere thou'dst past the Threshold of my Door; 

Be here, my Son, content to Dress and Dine, 

Steeping the List of Beauties in thy Wine, 

And neighb'ring Vermin with false Gloss outshine. 

Amongst Mankind a Thousand Fops we see, 70 

Who in their Rambles learn no more than Thee; 
Cross o'er the Alpes, and make the Tour of France 
To learn a paltry Song, or antick Dance; 
Bringing their Noddles, and Valizes pack'd 
With Mysteries, from Shops and Taylors wreck'd: 
But what may prejudice their Native Land; 
Whose Troops are raising, or whose Fleet is mann'd, 
Ne'er moves their Thoughts, nor do they understand. 
Thou, my dear Rattlehead, and such as These 
Might keep at home, and brood on Sloth and Ease; 80 
Whilst Others, more adapted to the Age, 
May vig'rously in Warlike Feats engage, 
And live on foreign Spoils, or dying thin the Stage. 

THE EXECUTOR 

A Greedy Heir long waited to fulfill. 
As his Executor, a Kinsman'' s Will; 
And to himself his Age repeated o'er, 
To his Infirmities still adding more; 



190 The Poems of Anne^ 

And nicely kept th' Account of the expected Store: 
When Death, at last, to either gave Release, 
Making One's Pains, the Other's Longings cease; 
Who to the Grave must decently convey, 
Ere he Possession takes the kindred Clay, 
Which in a Coach was plac'd, wherein he rides, 10 
And so no Hearse, or following Train provides; 
Rejecting JRussel, who wou'd make the Charge 
Of one dull tedious Day, so vastly Large. 
When, at his Death the humble Man declar'd. 
He wished thus privately to be Interr'd. 
And now, the Luggage moves in solemn State, 
And what it wants in Number, gains in Weight. 
The happy Heir can scarce contain his Joy, 
Whilst sundry Musings do his Thoughts employ. 
How he shalt act, now Every thing's his Own, 20 

Where his Revenge, or Favour shall be shown ; 
Then recollecting, draws a counterfeited Groan. 
The Avenues, and Gardens shall be chang'd. 
Already he the Furniture has ranged. 
To ransack secret Draw'rs his Phancy flies. 
Nor can th' appearing Wealth his Mind suffice. 
Thus he an Age runs o'er betwixt the Porch 
Of his Friend's House, and the adjacent Church: 
Whilst the slow Driver, who no reck'ning kept 
Of what was left, indulging Nature, slept; 30 

Till on a Bank, so high, the Wheel was borne 
That in a Moment All must overturn: 
Whilst the rich Heir now finds the giving Dead 
Less weighty in his Gold, than in his Lead; 
Which falling just on his contriving Breast, 
Expell'd the Soul, leaving the corpse to rest 
In the same Grave, intended for his Friend, 
/ Then why shou'd We our Days in Wishes spend. 
Which, ere we see fulfill'd, are often at an End? 



Countess of Winchilsea 191 

A TALE OF THE MISER AND THE POET 

Written about the Year 1709 

A Wit, transported with Inditing, 

Unpay'd, unprais'd, yet ever Writing; 

Who, for all Fights and Fav'rite Friends, 

Had Poems at his Finger Ends; 

For new Events was still providing; 

Yet now desirous to be riding. 

He pack'd-up ev'ry Ode and Ditty 

And in Vacation left the City; 

So rapt with Figures, and Allusions, 

With secret Passions, sweet Confusions; 10 

With Sentences from Plays well-known, 

And thousand Couplets of his own; 

That ev'n the chalky Road look'd gay, 

And seem'd to him the Milky Way. 

But Fortune, who the Ball is tossing. 

And Poets ever will be crossing, 

Misled the Steed, which ill he guided, 

Where several gloomy Paths divided. 

The steepest in Descent he followed, 

Enclos'd by Eocks, which Time had hollow'd; 20 

Till, he believed, alive and booted. 

He'd reach'd the Shades by Homer quoted. 

But all, that he cou'd there discover, 

Was, in a Pit with Thorns grown over. 

Old Mammon digging, straining, sweating. 

As Bags of Gold he thence was getting ; 

Who, when reproved for such Dejections 

By him, who lived on high Reflections, 

Reply'd; Brave Sir, your Time is ended. 

And Poetry no more befriended, 30 



192 The Poems of Anne 

I hid this Coin, when Charles was swaying; 

When all was Kiot, Masking, Playing; 

When witty Beggars were in fashion, 

And Learning had o'er-run the Nation, 

But, since Mankind is so much wiser, 

That none is valued like the Miser, 

I draw it hence, and now these Sums 

In proper Soil grow up to Plumbs; 

Which gather'd once, from that rich Minute 

We rule the World, and all that's in it. 40 

But, quoth the Poet, can you raise. 
As well as Plumb-trees, Groves of Bays? 
Where you, which I wou'd chuse much rather. 
May Fruits of Reputation gather? 
Will Men of Quality, and Spirit, 
Regard you for intrinsick Merit? 
And seek you out, before your Betters, 
For Conversation, Wit, and Letters? 

Fool, quoth the Churl, who knew no Breeding; 
Have these been Times for such Proceeding? 50 
Instead of Honoured and Rewarded, 
Are you not Slighted, or Discarded? 
What have you met with, but Disgraces? 
Your Peiob cou'd not keep in Places; 
And your Van-Brug had found no quarter, 
But for his dabbling in the Morter. 
RowE no Advantages cou'd hit on, 
Till Verse he left, to write North-Briton. 
Philips, who's by the Shilling known, 
Ne'er saw a Shilling of his own. 60 

Meets Philomela, in the Town 
Her due Proportion of Renown? 
What Pref'rence has Ardelia seen. 



Countess of Winchilsea 193 

T'expel, tho' she cou'd write the Spleen? 

Of Coach, or Tables, can you brag. 

Or better Cloaths than Poet Rag? 

Do wealthy Kindred, when they meet you, 

With Kindness, or Distinction, greet you? 

Or have your lately flatter'd Heroes 

Enrich'd you like the Roman Maroes? 70 

No — quoth the Man of broken Slumbers: 
Yet we have Patrons for our Numbers; 
There are J/eccewas's among: 'em. 

Quoth Mammon, pray Sir, do not wrong 'em; 
But in your Censures use a Conscience, 
Nor charge Great Men with thriftless Nonsense : 
Since they, as your own Poets sing. 
Now grant no Worth in any thing 
But so much Money as Hwill bring. 
Then, never more from your Endeavours 80 

Expect Preferment, or less Favours. 
But if you'll 'scape Contempt, or worse, 
Be sure, put Money in your Purse; 
Money! which only can relieve you 
When Fame and Friendship will deceive you. 

Sir, (quoth the Poet humbly bowing. 
And all that he had said allowing) 
Behold me and my airy Fancies 
Subdu'd, like Giants in Romances. 
I here submit to your Discourses; 90 

Which since Experience too enforces, 
I, in that solitary Pit, 
Your Gold withdrawn, will hide my Wit: 
Till Time, which hastily advances. 
And gives to all new Turns and Chances, 



194 The Poems of Anne 

Again may bring it into use; 

Roscommons may again produce; 

New Aiigustean Days revive, 

When Wit shall please, and Poets thrive. 

Till when, let those converse in private, 100 

Who taste what others don't arrive at ; 

Yielding that Mammonists surpass us ; 

And let the Bank out-swell Parnassus. 



THE TRADESMAN AND THE SCHOLAR 

A Citizen of mighty Pelf, 
But much a Blockhead, in himself 
Disdained a Man of shining Parts, 
Master of Sciences and Arts, 
Who left his Book scarce once a day 
For sober Coffee, Smoak, or Tea ; 
Nor spent more Money in the Town 
Than bought, when need requir'd, a Gown; 
Which way of Living much offends 
The Alderman, who gets and spends, 10 

And grudges him the Vital Air, 
Who drives no Trade, and takes no Care. 
Why Bookworm! to him once he cry'd, 
Why, setting thus the World aside, 
Dost thou thy useless Time consume, 
Enclos'd within a lonely Room, 
And poring damnify thy Wit, 
'Till not for Men or Manners fit ? 
Hop'st thou, with urging of thy Vein, 
To spin a Fortune from thy Brain? 20 

Or gain a Patron, that shall raise 
Thy solid State, for empty Praise? 
No; trust not to your Soothings vile, 



Countess of Winchilsea 195 

Receiv'd per we's the only Stile. 

Your Book's but frown'd on by My Lord; 

If Mine's uncross'd, I reach his Board. 

In slighting Yours, he shuts his Hand; 

Protracting Mine, devolves the Land. 

Then let Advantage be the Test, 

Which of us Two ev'n Writes the best. 30 

Besides, I often Scarlet wear. 

And strut to Church, just next the Mayor. 

Whilst rusty Black, with Inch of Band, 

Is all the Dress you understand ; 

Who in the Pulpit thresh to Please, 

Whilst I below can snore at Ease. 

Yet, if you prove me there a Sinner, 

I let you go without a Dinner. 

This Prate was so beneath the Sence 

Of One, who Wisdom cou'd dispense, 40 

Unheard, or unreturn'd it past: 

But War now lays the City waste, 

And plunder'd Goods profusely fell 

By length of Pike, not length of Ell. 

Abroad th' Inhabitants are forc'd. 

From Shops, and Trade, and Wealth divorc'd. 

The Student leaving but his Book, 

The Tumult of the Place forsook. 

In Foreign Parts, One tells his Tale, 

How Kich he'd been, how quick his Sale, 50 

Which do's for scanty Alms prevail. 

The Chance of War whilst he deplores. 

And dines at Charitable Doors; 

The Man of Letters, known by Fame, 

Was welcom'd, wheresoe'er he came. 

Still, Potentates entreat his Stay, 

Whose Coaches meet him on the Way: 



196 The Poems of Anne 

And Universities contest 

Which shall exceed, or use him best. 

Amaz'd the Burgomaster sees 60 

On Foot, and scorn'd such Turns as these; 

And sighing, now deplores too late 

His cumb'rous Trash, and shallow Pate: 

Since loaded but with double Chest 

Of learned Head, and honest Breast, 

The Scholar moves from Place to Place, 

And finds in every Climate Grace, 

Wit and the Arts, on that Foundation raised, 
{However the Vulgar are with Shoivs amazed) 
Is all that recommends, or can he justly prais'd. 70 

MAN'S INJUSTICE TOWARDS PROVIDENCE 

A Thriving Merchant, who no Loss sustained, 

In little time a mighty Fortune gain'd. 

No Pyrate seiz'd his still returning Freight ; 

Nor foundring Vessel sunk with its own Weight: 

No Ruin enter'd through dissever'd Planks; 

No Wreck at Sea, nor in the Publick Banks. 

Aloft he sails, above the Reach of Chance, 

And do's in Pride, as fast as Wealth, advance. 

His Wife too, had her Town and Country-Seat, 

And rich in Purse, concludes her Person Great. 10 

A Dutchess wears not so much Gold and Lace ; 

Then 'tis with Her an undisputed Case, 

The finest Petticoat must take the Place. 

Her Rooms, anew at ev'ry Christ'ning drest, 

Put down the Court, and vex the City-Guest. 

Grinning Malottos in true Ermin stare; 

The best Japan, and clearest China Ware 

Are but as common Delft and English Laquar there. 



Countess of Winohilsea 197 

No Luxury's by either unenjoy'd, 

Or cost withheld, tho' awkardly employ'd. 20 

How comes this Wealth ? a Country Friend demands, 
Who scarce cou'd live on Product of his Lands, 
How is it that, when Trading is so bad 
That some are Broke, and some with Fears run Mad, 
You can in better State yourself maintain, 
And your Effects still unimpair'd remain! 
My Industry, he cries, is all the Cause; 
Sometimes I interlope, and slight the Laws ; 
I wiser Measures, than my Neighbours, take. 
And better speed, who better Bargains make. 30 

I knew, the Smyrna-'Fleet wou'd fall a Prey, 
And therefore sent no Vessel out that way: 
My busy Factors prudently I chuse. 
And in streight Bonds their Friends and Kindred noose : 
At Home, I to the Publick Sums advance. 
Whilst, under-hand in Fee with hostile France, 
I care not for your Tourvills, or Du-Barts, 
No more than for the Rocks, and Shelves in Charts: 
My own sufficiency creates my Gain, 
Rais'd, and secur'd by this unfailing Brain. 40 

This idle Vaunt had scarcely past his Lips, 
When Tydings came, his ill-provided Ships 
Some thro' the want of Skill, and some of Care, 
Were lost, or back return'd without their Fare. 
From bad to worse, each Day his State declin'd, 
"Till leaving Town, and Wife, and Debts behind, 
To his Acquaintance at the Rural Seat 
He Sculks, and humbly sues for a Retreat. 
Whence comes this Change, has Wisdom left that Head, 
(His Friend demands) where such right Schemes were 
bred? 50 

What Phrenzy, what Delirium mars the Scull, 



198 The Poems of Anne 

Which fill'd the Chests, and was it self so full? 
Here interrupting, sadly he Reply'd, 
In Me's no Change, but Fate must all Things guide; 
To Providence I attribute my Loss. 

Vain- glorious Man do''s thus the Praise engross, 
When Prosp'rous Days around him spread their 

Beams : 
But, if revolved to opposite Extreams, 
Still his own Sence he fondly will prefer. 
And Providence, not He, in his Affairs must Err! 60 

THE EAGLE, THE SOW, AND THE CAT 

The Queen of Birds, t'encrease the Regal Stock, 
Had hatch'd her young Ones in a stately Oak, 
Whose Middle-part was by a Cat possest. 
And near the Root with Litter warmly drest, 
A teeming Sow had made her peaceful Nest. 
(Thus Palaces are cramm'd from Roof to Ground, 
And Animals, as various, in them found.) 
When to the Sow, who no Misfortune fear'd, 
Puss with her fawning Compliments appear'd. 
Rejoicing much at her Deliv'ry past, 10 

And that she 'scap'd so well, who bred so fast. 
Then every little Piglin she commends. 
And likens them to all their swinish Friends ; 
Bestows good Wishes, but with Sighs implies, 
That some dark Fears do in her Bosom rise. 
Such Tempting Flesh, she cries, will Eagles spare? 
Methinks, good Neighbour, you should live in Care: 
Since I, who bring not forth such dainty Bits, 
Tremble for my unpalatable Chits; 
And had I but foreseen, the Eagle's Bed 20 

Was in this fatal Tree to have been spread; 



Countess of Winohilsea 199 

I sooner would have kitten'd in the Road, 

Than made this Place of Danger my abode. 

I heard her young Ones lately cry for Pig, 

And pity'd you, that were so near, and big. 

In Friendship this I secretly reveal, 

Lest Pettitoes shou'd make th' ensuing Meal; 

Or else, perhaps. Yourself may be their aim, 

For a Sow's Paps has been a Dish of Fame. 

No more the sad, affrighted Mother hears, 30 

But overturning all with boist'rous Fears, 

She from her helpless Young in haste departs, 

Whilst Puss ascends, to practice farther Arts. 

The Anti -chamber pass'd, she scratch'd the Door; 

The Eagle, ne'er alarum'd so before, 

Bids her come in, and look the Cause be great, 

That makes her thus disturb the Royal Seat ; 

Nor think, of Mice and Rats some pest'ring Tale 

Shall, in excuse of Insolence, prevail. 

Alas! my Gracious Lady, quoth the Cat, 40 

I think not of such Vermin; Mouse, or Rat 

To me are tasteless grown; nor dare I stir 

To use my Phangs, or to expose my Fur. 

A Foe intestine threatens all around, 

And ev'n this lofty Structure will confound; 

A Pestilential Sow, a meazPd Pork 

On the Foundation has been long at work, 

Help'd by a Rabble, issu'd from her Womb, 

Which she has foster'd in that lower Room ; 

Who now for Acorns are so madly bent, 50 

That soon this Tree must fall, for their Content. 

I wou'd have fetch'd some for th' unruly Elves; 

But 'tis the Mob's delight to help Themselves: 

Whilst your high Brood must with the meanest drop, 

And steeper be their Fall, as next the Top; 



200 The Poems of Anne 

Unless you soon to Jupiter repair, 
, And let him know, the Case demands his Care. 
Oh ! may the Trunk but stand, 'till you come back ! 
But hark! already sure, I hear it crack. 
Away, away — The Eagle, all agast, 60 

Soars to the Sky, nor falters in her haste: 
Whilst crafty Puss, now o'er the Eyry reigns, 
Replenishing her Maw with treach'rous Gains. 
The Sow she plunders next, and lives alone; 
The Pigs, the Eaglets, and the House her own. 

Curs''d Sycophants! How wretched is the Fate 
Of those, who know you not, till His too late! 

THE MAN BITTEN BY FLEAS 

A Peevish Fellow laid his Head 

On Pillows stufp'd with Down ; 
But was no sooner warm in bed, 

With hopes to rest his Crown, 

But Animals of slender size, 

That feast on humane Gore, 
From secret Ambushes arise, 

Nor suffer him to snore; 

Who starts, and scrubs, and frets, and swears, 

'Till, finding all in vain, 
He for Relief employs his Pray'rs 

In this old Heathen strain. 

Great Jupiter! thy Thunder send 

From out the pitchy Clouds, 
And give these Foes a dreadful End, 

That lurk in Midnight Shrouds: 



Countess of Winchilsea 201 

Or Hercules might with a Blow, 

If once together brought, 
This Crew of Monsters overthrow, 

By which such Harms are wrought. 

The Strife, ye Gods! is worthy You, 

Since it our Blood has cost; 
And scorching Fevers must ensue, 

When cooling Sleep is lost. 

Strange Revolutions wou'd abound, 

Did Men ne'er close their Eyes; 
Whilst those, who wrought them would be found 

At length more Mad, than Wise. 

Passive Obedience must be us'd, 

If this cannot be Cur'd; 
But whilst One Flea is slowly bruis'd, 

Thousands must be endur'd. 

Confusion, Slav'ry, Death and Wreck 

Will on the Nation seize. 
If, whilst you keep your Thunders back, 

We're massacred by Fleas. 

Why, prithee, shatter-headed Fop, 

The laughing Gods reply ; 
Hast thou forgot thy Broom, and Mop, 

And Wormwood growing nigh ? 

Go sweep, and wash, and strew thy Floor, 

As all good Housewives teach; 
And do not thus for Thunders roar, 

To make some fatal Breach: 

Which You, nor your succeeding Heir, 

Nor yet a long Descent 
Shall find out Methods to repair, 

Tho' Prudence may prevent. 



202 The Poems of Anne 

For Club, and Bolts, a Nation calVd of late, 
Nor woiCd he eas'd by Engines of less Weight: 
But whether lighter had not done as well, 
Let their Greai-Grandsons, or their Grandsons 
tell. 

KEFORMATION 

A Gentleman, most wretched in his Lot, 

A wrangling and reproving Wife had got, 

Who, tho' she curb'd his Pleasures, and his Food, 

Call'd him My Dear, and did it for his Good, 

Ills to prevent ; She of all Ills the worst, 

So wisely Froward, and so kindly Curst. 

The Servants too experiment her Lungs, 

And find they've Breath to serve a thousand Tongues. 

Nothing went on ; for her eternal Clack 

Still rectifying, set all Matters back ; 10 

Nor Town, nor Neighbours, nor the Court cou'd please, 

But furnish'd Matter for her sharp Disease. 

To distant Plains at length he gets her down, 

With no Affairs to manage of her own ; 

Hoping from that unactive State to find 

A calmer Habit, grown upon her Mind: 

But soon return'd he hears her at his Door, 

As noisy and tempestuous as before; 

Yet mildly ask'd, How she her Days had spent 

Amidst the Quiet of a sweet Content, 20 

Where Shepherds 'tend their Flocks, and Maids their 

Pails, 
And no harsh Mistress domineers, or rails? 

Not rail ! she cries Why, I that had no share 

In their Concerns, cou'd not the Trollops spare ; 

But told 'em, they were Sluts And for the Swains, 

My Name a Terror to them still remains; 



Countess of Winchilsea 203 

So often I reprov'd their slothful Faults, 

And with such Freedom told 'em all my Thoughts, 

That I no more amongst them cou'd reside. 

Has then, alas! the Gentleman reply 'd, 30 

One single Month so much their patience try'd? 

Where you by Day, and but at Seasons due, 

Cou'd with your Clamours their Defects pursue; 

How had they shrunk, and justly been afraid. 

Had they with me one Curtain Lecture heard! 

Yet enter Madam, and resume your Sway; 

Who can't Command, must silently Obey. 

In secret here let endless Faults be found, 

Till, like Reformers who in States abound. 

You all to Ruin bring, and ev'ry Part confound. 40 



THE LYON AND THE GNAT 

To the still Covert of a Wood, 
About the prime of Day, 
A Lyon, satiated with Food, 
With stately Pace, and sullen Mood, 
Now took his lazy way. 

To Rest he there himself compos'd, 

And in his Mind revolv'd, 
How Great a Person it enclos'd. 
How free from Danger he repos'd, 
Though now in Ease dissolv'd! 

Who Guard, nor Centinel did need. 

Despising as a Jest 
All whom the Forest else did feed, 
As Creatures of an abject Breed, 

Who durst not him molest. 



204 The Poems of Anne 

But in the Air a Sound he heard, 
That gave him some dislike ; 
At which he shook his grisly Beard, 
Enough to make the Woods affeard, 
And stretch' d his Paw to strike. 

When on his lifted Nose there fell 

A Creature, slight of Wing, 
Who neither fear'd his Grin, nor Yell, 
Nor Strength, that in his Jaws did dwell, 
But gores him with her Sting. 

Transported with th' Affront and Pain, 

He terribly exclaims, 
Protesting, if it comes again, 
Its guilty Blood the Grass shall stain. 

And to surprize it aims. 

The scoffing Gnat now laugh' d aloud, 

And bids him upwards view 
The Jupiter within the Cloud, 
That humbl'd him, who was so proud. 
And this sharp Thunder threw. 

That Taunt no Lyon^s Heart cou'd bear; 

And now much more he raves. 
Whilst this new Perseus in the Air 
Do's War and Strife again declare. 

And all his Terrour braves. 

Upon his haughty Neck she rides. 

Then on his lashing Tail ; 
(Which need not now provoke his Sides) 

Where she her slender Weapon guides, 
And makes all Patience fail. 



Countess of Winchilsea 205 

A Truce at length lie must propose, ' 

The Terms to be her Own; 
Who likewise Rest and Quiet chose, 
Contented now her Life to close, 

When she'd such Triumph known. 

You mighty Men, who meaner ones despise, 
Learn from this Fable to become more Wise; 
You see the Lyon may be vext with Flies. 

THE MAN AND HIS HORSE 

Within a Meadow, on the way, 
A sordid Churl resolv'd to stay, 

And give his Horse a Bite ; 
Purloining so his Neighbours Hay, 
That at the Inn he might not pay 

For Forage all the Night. 

With Heart's content th' unloaded Steed 
Began to neigh, and frisk, and feed; 

For nothing more he car'd. 
Since none of all his Master's breed 
E'er found such Pasture, at their need. 

Or half so well had far'd. 

When, in the turning of a Hand, 
Out comes the Owner of the Land, 

And do's the Trespass eye ; 
Which puts poor Bayard to a Stand, 
For now his Master do's command 

Him to return and fly. 

But Hunger quick'ning up his Wit, 
And Grass being sweeter than the Bit, 
He to the Clown reply'd: 



206 The Poems of Anne 

Shall I for you this Dinner quit, 
Who to my Back hard Burdens fit, 
And to the Death wou'd ride? 

No; shou'd I as a Stray be found, 
And seized upon forbidden Ground, 

I'll on this Spot stand still ; 

For tho' new Riders shou'd abound, 

(Or did Mankind this Field surround) 

They cou'd but use me ill. 

Urge 710 Man to despair; lest in the Fit 
He with some Counterblow thy Head may hit 

THE DOG AND HIS MASTER 

No better Dog e'er kept his Master's Door 
Than honest Snarl, who spar'd nor Rich nor Poor; 
But gave the Alarm, when any one drew nigh 
Nor let pretended Friends pass fearless by: 
For which reprov'd, as better Fed than Taught, 
He rightly thus expostulates the Fault. 

To keep the House from Rascals was my Charge ; 
The Task was great, and the Commission large. 
Nor did your Worship e'er declare your Mind, 
That to the begging Crew it was confin'd; 10 

Who shrink an Arm, or prop an able Knee, 
Or turn up Eyes, till they're not seen, nor see. 
To Thieves, who know the Penalty of Stealth, 
And fairly stake their Necks against your Wealth, 
These are the known Delinquents of the Times, 
And Whips and Tyburn testify their Crimes. 
But since to Me there was by Nature lent 
An exquisite Discerning by the Scent; 
I trace a Flatt'rer, when he fawns and leers, 



Countess of Winchilsea 207 

A rallying Wit, when he commends and jeers: 20 

The greedy Parasite I grudging note, 

Who praises the good Bits, that oil his Throat; 

I mark the Lady, you so fondly toast, 

That plays your Gold, when all her own is lost: 

The Knave, who fences your Estate by Law, 

Yet still reserves an undermining Flaw. 

These and a thousand more, which I cou'd tell. 

Provoke my Growling, and offend my Smell. 



THE BATTLE BETWEEN THE RATS AND THE 
WEAZLES 

In dire Contest the Rats and Weazles met. 
And Foot to Foot, and Point to Point was set: 
An ancient Quarrel had such Hatred wrought. 
That for Revenge, as for Renown, they fought. 
Now bloody was the Day, and hard the Strife, 
Wherein bold Warriors lost neglected Life: 
But as, some Errors still we must commit, 
Nor Valour always ballanc'd is by Wit; 
Among the Rats some Ofl&cers appear'd, 
With lofty Plumage on their Foreheads rear'd, 
Unthinking they, and ruin'd by their Pride: 
For when the Weazles prov'd the stronger Side, 
A gen'ral Rout befell, and a Retreat, 
Was by the Vanquish'd now implor'd of Fate; 
To slender Crannies all repair'd in haste, 
Where easily the undress'd Vulgar past: 
But when the Rais of Figure wou'd have fled. 
So wide those branching Marks of Honour spread, 
The Feather in the Cap was fatal to the Head. 



208 The Poems of Anne 

DEMOCRITUS AND HIS NEIGHBOURS 
Imitated from Fontaine 

In Vulgar Minds what Errors do arise! 
How diff'ring are the Notions, they possess, 

From theirs, whom better Sense do's bless, 
Who justly are enroll'd amongst the Learn'd and Wise ! 
Democritus, whilst he all Science taught, 

Was by his foolish Neighbours thought 
Distracted in his Wits; 

Who call his speculative Flights, 

His solitary Walks in starry Nights, 

But wild and frantick Fits. 10 

Bless me, each cries, from such a working Brain! 

And to Hi2^pocrates they send 

The Sage's long-acquainted Friend, 
To put in Tune his jarring Mind again, 

And Pericranium mend. 
Away the Skilful Doctor comes 

Of Recipes and Med'cines full. 
To check the giddy Whirl of Nature's Fires, 

If so th' unruly Case requires; 
Or with his Cobweb-cleansing Brooms 20 

To sweep and clear the over-crouded Scull, 
If settl'd Spirits flag, and make the Patient dull. 

But asking what the Symptoms were, 

That made 'em think he was so bad? 

The Man indeed, they cry'd, is wond'rous Mad. 
You, at this Distance, may behold him there 

Beneath that Tree in open Air, 
Surrounded with the Engines of his Fate, 

The Gimcracks of a broken Pate. 

Those Hoops a Sphere he calls, 30 

That Ball the Earth; 



Countess of Winchilsea 209 

And when into his raving Fit he falls, 

'Twou'd move at once your Pity, and your Mirth, 

To hear him, as you will do soon, 
Declaring, there's a Kingdom in the Moon; 

And that each Star, for ought he knows, 

May some Inhabitants enclose: 
Philosophers, he says, may there abound. 
Such Jugglers as himself be in them found; 
Which if there be, the World may well turn round; 40 

At least to those, whose Whimsies are so strange. 

That, whilst they're fixt to one peculiar Place, 

Pretend to measure far extended Space, 

And 'mongst the Planets range. 

Behold him now contemplating that Head, 
From which long-since both Flesh, and Brains are fled; 
Questioning, if that empty, hollow Bowl 
Did not ere while contain the Human Soul: 
Then starts a Doubt, if 't were not to the Heart 
That Nature rather did that Gift impart. 50 

Good Sir, employ the utmost of your Skill, 
To make him Wiser, tho' against his Will; 
Who thinks, that he already All exceeds. 
And laughs at our most solemn Words and Deeds: 
Tho' once amongst us he wou'd try a Cause, 

And Bus'ness of the Town discuss. 

Knowing as well as one of us. 
The Price of Corn, and standing Market-Laws; 

Wou'd bear an Office in his Turn, 
For which good Purposes all Men were born; 60 

Not to be making Circles in the Sand, 
And scaling Heav'n, till they have sold their Land; 
Or, when unstock'd below their Pasture lies, 
To find out Bulls and Hams, amidst the Skies. 
From these Mistakes his Madness we conclude ; 



210 The Poems of Anne 

And hearing, you was with much Skill endu'd, 

Your Aid we sought. Hippocrates amaz'd, 

Now on the Sage, now on the Rabble gaz'd; 

And whilst he needless finds his artful Rules, 

Pities a Man of Sense, judg'd by a Croud of Fools. 70 

Then how can we with their Opinions join, 

Who, to promote some Infrest, woii'd define 

The Peoples Voice to be the Voice Divine? 

FANSCOMB BARN 

In Imitation of MILTON 

In Fanscomb Barn (who knows not Fanscomh Barn?) 
Seated between the sides of rising Hills, 
Whose airy Tops o'erlook the Gallick Seas. 
Whilst, gentle Sfoiver, thy Waters near them flow. 
To beautify the Seats that crown thy Banks. 

— In this Retreat 
Through Ages pass'd consign' d for Harbour meet. 
And Place of sweet Repose to Wand'rers poor, 
The weary Strolepedon felt that Ease, 
Which many a dangerous Borough had deny'd 10 

To him, and his Budgeta lov'd Compeer; 
Nor Food was wanting to the happy Pair, 
Who with meek Aspect, and precarious Tone, 
Well suited to their Hunger and Degree, 
Had mov'd the Hearts of hospitable Dames, 
To furnish such Repast as Nature crav'd. 
Whilst more to please the swarthy Bowl appears, 
Replete with Liquor, globulous to fight. 
And threat' ning Inundation o'er the Brim; 
Yet, ere it to the longing Lips was rais'd 20 

Of him who held it at its due Desert, 
And more than all entreated Bounty priz'd, 



Countess of Winchilsea 211 

Into the strong Profundity he throws 

The floating Healths of Females, blith and young, 

Who there had rendezvouz'd in past Delight, 

And to stol'n Plenty added clamorous Mirth, 

With Song and Dance, and every jovial Prank 

Befitting buxom Crew, untied by Forms: 

Whilst kind Budgeta nam'd such sturdy Youths, 

As next into her tender Thoughts revolv'd, 30 

And now were straggling East, and West, and South, 

Hoof-beating, and at large, as Chance directs, 

Still shifting Paths, lest Men (tho' stil'd of Peace) 

Should urge their calmer Thoughts to Iron War, 

Or force them to promote coercive Laws, 

Beating that Hemp which oft entraps their Lives; 

Or into Cordage pleated, and amass'd. 

Deprives unruly Flesh of tempting Skin. 

Thus kind Remembrance brought the Absent near 

And hasten' d the Return of either' s Pledge: 40 

Brown were the Toasts, but not unsav'ry found 

To Fancies clear'd by Exercise and Air, 

Which the spirituous Nectar still improves, 

And gliding now thro' every cherish 'd Vein, 

New Warmth diffused, new Cogitations bred, 

With Self-conceit of Person, and of Parts. 

When Strolepedon (late distorted Wight, 

Limb- wanting to the View, and all mis-shap'd) 

Permits a pinion'd Arm to fill the sleeve. 

Erst pendant, void, and waving with the Wind, 50 

The Timber-Leg obsequiously withdraws. 

And gives to that of Bone Precedence due. 

Thus undisguis'd that Form again he wears. 

Which Damsel fond had drawn from houshold Toils, 

And strict Behests of Parents, old and scorn'd; 

Whilst farther yet his Intellects confess 



212 The Poems of Anne 

The bouzy Spell dilated and inlians'd, 

Ripe for Description, and sett Turns of Speech, 

Which to Conjugal Spouse were thus addrest. 

My Wife (acknowledg'd such thro' maunding Tribes, 

As long as mutual Love, the only Law, 61 

Of Hedge or Barn, can bind our easy Faiths) 

Be thou observant of thy Husband's Voice, 

Sole Auditor of Flights and Figures bold; 

Know, that the Valley which we hence descry 

Richly adorn'd, is Fanscomb-Bottom call'd: 

But whether from these Walls it takes the Name, 

Or they from that, let Antiquaries tell. 

And Men, well-read in Stories obsolete, 

Whilst such Denomination either claims, 70 

As speaks Affinity contiguous 

Thence let thy scatter'd Sight, and oft-griev'd Smell 

Engulf the Sweets, and Colours free dispos'd 

To Flowers promiscuous, and redundant Plants. 

And (if the drouzy Vapour will admit, 

Which from the Bowl soon triumphs o'er thy Lidds, 

And Thee the weaker Vessel still denotes) 

With Looks erect observe the verdant Slope 

Of graceful Hills, fertile in Bush and Brake, 

Whose Height attain'd, th' expatiated Downs 80 

Shall wider Scenes display of rural Glee ; 

Where banner'd Lords, and fair escutcheon' d Knights, 

With gentle Squires, and the Staff -griping Clown, 

Pursue the trembling Prey impetuous; 

Which yet escaping, when the Night returns. 

And downy Beds enfold their careless Limbs, 

More wakeful Trundle (Knapsack-bearing Cur) 

Follows the Scent untrac'd by nobler Hounds, 

And brings to us the Fruit of all their Toil. 



Countess of Winchilsea 213 

Thus sung the Bard, whom potent Liquor rais'd, 90 
Nor so contented, wish'd sublimer Aid. 
Ye Wits! (he cry'd) ye Poets! (Loiterers vain, 
Who like to us, in Idleness and Want 
Consume fantastick Hours) hither repair, 
And tell to list'ning Mendicants the Cause 
Of Wonders, here observ'd but not discuss'd: 
Where, the White Sparrow never soil'd her Plumes, 
Nor the dull Russet cloaths the Snowy Mouse. 
To Helicon you might the Spring compare, 
That flows near Pickersdane renowned Stream, 100 

Which, for Disport and Play, the Youths frequent. 
Who, train'd in Learned School of ancient Wye, 
First at this Fount suck in the Muses Lore, 
When mixt with Product of the Indian Cane, 
They drink delicious Draughts, and part inspired, 
Fit for the Banks of Isis, or of Cham, 
(For Cham and Isis to the Bard were known, 
A Servitor, when young in College-Hall, 
Tho' vagrant Liberty he early chose. 
Who yet, when Drunk, retain'd Poetick Phrase.) 110 
Nor shou'd (quoth he) that Well, o'erhung with shade. 
Amidst those neighb'ring Trees of dateless growth. 
Be left unfathom'd by your nicer Skill 
Who thence cou'd extricate a thousand Charms, 
Or to oblivious Lethe might convert 
The stagnant Waters of the sleepy Pool. 
But most unhappy was that Morphean Sound 
For luird Biidgeta, who had long desir'd 
Dismission fair from Tales, not throughly scann'd. 
Thinking her Love a Sympathy confest, 120 

When the Word Sleepy parted from his Lips, 
Sunk affable and easy to that Rest, 
Which Straw affords to Minds, unvex'd with Cares. 



214 The Poems of Anne 



PSALM THE 137TH PARAPHRAS'D TO THE 7TH VERSE 

Proud Babylon! Thou saw'st us weep; 

EujjJirates, as he pass'd along, 
Saw, on his Banks, the Sacred Throng 

A heavy, solemn Mourning keep. 
Sad Captives to thy Sons, and Thee, 
When nothing but our Tears were Free! 

A Song of Sion they require, 

And from the neighb'ring Trees to take 

Each Man his dumb, neglected Lyre, 
And chearful Sounds on them awake: 

Biit chearful Sounds the Strings refuse, 

Nor will their Masters Griefs abuse. 

How can We, Lord, thy Praise proclaim. 
Here, in a strange unhallow'd Land! 

Lest we provoke them to Blaspheme 
A Name, they do not understand; 

And with rent Garments, that deplore 

Above whate'er we felt before. 

But, Thou, Jerusalem, so Dear! 

If thy lov'd Image e'er depart. 
Or I forget thy Suflf 'rings here; 

Let my right Hand forget her Art ; 
My Tongue her vocal Gift resign. 

And Sacred Verse no more be mine! 



A PREPARATION TO PRAYER 

Lett no bold Pray'r, presume to rise, 

Lett no unhallow'd Incense, goe 
A fruitlesse progresse, throo' the skyes, 



Countess of Winchilsea 215 

Whilst here thy heart remains below, 
Thy heart, adorn'd in all its best desires. 
The Father kindly courts, thy awful God requires. 

Think, with what reverence, and state, 

Thy Maker is ador'd above, 
What mighty Beings, round him waite. 

And pay their Worship, and their Love. 
That Cherubims, are in his sight afraid, 
And with enfolded wings their glorious faces shade. 

How must that Guardian Angel greive. 

That to attend thy soul is sent, 
Such cold petitions to receive, 

As his warm zeal, can n'ere present? 
How must he greive, thy empty forms to see. 
In spirit, and in truth, his God must worship'd bee? 

How will itt swell thy final cares, 

How, will it all thy hopes defeat, 
To see thy Sins, encreas't by Pray'rs, 

Which only cou'd their force abate? 
How can'st thou hope, t' escape those f orrain harms, 
Who thus against thy self, turn'st thy defensive 

arms? 

A PASTORAL 

Behveen Menalcus and Damon, on the Appearance of the Angels 
to the Shepheards on Our Saviour^s Birth Day 

Menalc : 

Damon, whilst thus, we nightly watches keep, 
Breaking the gentle bands of downy sleep. 
Least to the greedy woolves, that hungry stray, 
Our wand'ring flocks, become an easy Prey, 
Do thou, for song renown' d, some one recite. 



216 The Poems of Anne 

To charm the season, and deceive the night. 

Whether, thou Sampson's nervous strength willt chuse, 
And in bold numbers, exercise thy Muse ? 
Or if to tender subjects more enclin'd. 
That move soft pitty, and dissolve the mind, 10 

Thou Joseph's story, rather wilt rehearse, 
And weep o're Benjamin, in melting Verse, 
Begin, whilst list'ning to thy voyce, we lye. 
Nor mind the whist'ling winds, that o're us fly. 
So! Jesse's Son, upon these plaines, when yong, 
Watch'd ore his flocks, and so, the Shepheard sung. 

Dam : 

So, rais'd indeed, that youth, his voyce devine, 

Fir'd with the promis'd glory s of his Line, 

As if, on Heavens high Mount himself had trod, 

And seen his Seed, ascend the seat of God. 20 

Oh! had he lately, on our pastures been, 
And heard the ty dings, and the Vision seen. 
When Heav'nly Spirits, cloath'd in Robes of light, 
Broke the thick Shaddows, and expell'd the Night, 
Proclaiming Peace below, and Praise above, 
And op'ning all the misteries of Love, 
How had he then, above all others skill' d. 
In raptures sung, of Prophecys fullfill'd? 
Our gath'ring flocks, upon the splendour gaz'd, — 
The weary slept not, nor the hungry graz'd, 30 

Their leaders, by them stood, delighted, and amazed. 
A pleasing wonder, tho' allay'd with fear, 
Fill'd every breast, and open'd every ear. 
When thus began the Messengers of Heaven; 

To you a Child is born, to you a Son is giv'n, 
Prayses they gave, and titles did encrease, 
Wonderfull! Councellour! and Prince of Peace! 



Countess of Winchilsea 217 

Long since Emanuel, by the Prophett stil'd, 
Now, God with ns ! They call'd the glorious Child. 

" But hold, a Shepheard while his flock does feed, 40 
" Must chuse a subject suited to his Reed, 
Nor with mistaken strength, attempt the Sky, 
But o're the Plaines, with easy motion fly. 
Enough by us, Menalcus may be said. 
Of the first Shepheards, and that lovely Maid 
Whose eyes, cou'd seven years servitude allay, 
And make them doubl'd seem but as a day. 

Now, to the silver streams their flock they led, 
Now, where the friendly beech his arms had spread 
Wide open, to envite 'em to his shade, 50 

Behold the happy pair, securely lay'd. 
Oh Israel! how did Heav'n thy joys approve, 
Who plac'd thy profitt, where itt plac'd thy Love? 
This, be my subject, while with reverend awe 
My words, from what they cannot reach, withdraw. 
Begin my Muse, begin the tender song. 
The season sha'nt be cold, nor shall the Night be long, 

Menalc : 
As much this Song (att other times approv'd) 
Wou'd grate thy hearers, with those wonders mov'd. 
As if wild gourds were ofiPer'd to the taste, 60 

When the full Vine with purple fruit was grac't. 

As if, Dametas shou'd to sing encline. 
And raise his voyce, when we expected thine. 

But lett thy Muse attempt that Nobler song, 
The season sha'nt be cold, nor shall the night be long. 

Dam : 
Then be itt so, tho' much I fear to try 
The lofty measures of a flight so high: 
The fallen Moon, had now her beams withdrawn. 



218 The Poems of Anne 

And left the Skyes, 'ere morning light cou'd dawn. 

The Swaynes were silent, and the flocks were still, 70 

The rappid stream, that flows from yonder hill, 

Did by itts winding banks so softly stray, 

As if itt meant unseen, to steal away. 

A general darknesse o're the world was spread, 

And not one Star, wou'd show his trembling head, 

Conscious no doubt, (their dwellings being so nigh) 

Of greater Glory, breaking from the sky. 

And loe! itt came. Th' Etherial Princes came, 
Gently reclin'd on hills of harmlesse flame, 
Upon the Winds officious Wings they flew, 80 

And fairer seem'd, still as they neerer drew. 
Misterious wreaths upon their heads, they wore, 
And in their hands, the smiling Olive bore, 
Emblems no doubt, of what they came to move, 
For all their words were Peace, and all their looks were 

love. 
But ne're by me, the Vision be expresst 
By the Suns rising, from the radiant East. 
But ne're by me, their voyces be compar'd 
To Pans own notes, when on the mountains heard. 
But ne're by me, be that transcendent show, 90 

Liken'd to ought we glorious call, below. 
Night, in her sable mantle wrapt her head, 
And with unusual haste, to lower Worlds she fled. 

Fear, that att distance, had our hearts possesst, 
To softer passions, yeilded ev'ry breast. 
When thus began the Messengers of Heav'n, 
To you a Child is born, to you a Son is given. 

Such joy, as ends the harvests happy toyle, 
Such joy, as when the Victors, part the spoyl. 
Upon your ransom'd heads, shall ever smile. 100 

When to full Stature, and perfection grown 



Countess of Winchilsea 219 

Possess' d of holy Davids sacred Throne, 

He shall, th' Immortal and tryumphant Boy, 

Th' Infernal Powers, and all their rule destroy. 

The cursed Serpent's head, his weight shall feel, 

And threaten' d vengance, for his brused heel. 

The flaming Cherub, shall his guard remitt. 

And Paradice, again be open sett. 

Angels and God, shall dwell with men below, 

And men releas'd, to God, and Angels go. 110 

Peace, to the troubl'd World he shall restore. 

And bloody discord, shall prevail no more. 

The Lamb, his side by the tam'd Wolff shall lay, 

And o're the Aspicks den, the child shall play. 

Contending Elements, his Pow'r shall own. 

The Winds, shall att his word their rage lay down, 

And the chaft billows, shall forbear to frown. 

Th' untun'd Creation (by the fall of man) 

Shall move harmoniously as itt began. 

The fruitfull Autumn, and the gaudy Spring, 120 

Shall sure returns, of sweets, and plenty bring. 

And thorough every Grove, the holy swaynes shall sing 

Of weighty truths, preserv'd in sacred Rimes, 

T' instruct the Pastors of succeeding times. 

In the soft rules, of Charity and Love, 

Goodwill to men, and praise to Heaven above. 

And thou, poor Bethlehem, enclos'd with shade, 

Shalt throo' all ages, be illustrious made. 

Since in thy bosome, the Redeemer's layd; 

Thousands in Juda, did thy state dispise, 130 

Thousands in Juda now, thy lott shall prise. 

Now Beor's Son, the Star by thee foretold, 

Newly adorn' d, in pointed Rays of Gold, 

Call's from thy learned East, th' adoring Kings, 

And ev'ry one, a several Tribute brings, 



220 The Poems of Anne 

Sabean odours, and Arabian ore, 

Shall now be offer'd from their choicest store. 

Go with them, Shepheards go, and with like faith adore. 

But see! whilst in these pleasing paths I stray. 
Night, has resign' d her rule to rising day, 140 

Behind those Eastern hills, the sun appears, 
And the gay Horizon, about him chears. 
Our joyfull flocks, the chearfull morning view, 
And from their fleeces, 'shake the orient dew. 
No more, Menalcus, we, no more, must sing. 
But now our sheep to the fresh pastures bring. 

Menalc : 
Oh! happy shepheard, favour'd with that sight. 
That can when but repeated, thus delight. 

Not flow'ry Garlands, in the pride of May, 
Nor rural presents, can thy meritts pay. 150 

Not our first Lambs, or clioices[t] fruits that grow. 
Enough, alas! our gratitude can show! 
There shall a Bowl, of antique date, be thine. 
And Joseph's 'twas, by which he did devine; 
Upon the sides, is carv'd in works of gold 
The mystick sense, of what thou doest unfold. 
Clusters of grapes, about itts borders twine, 
That seem when fill'd, to have produc'd the wine. 
To me, by long inheritance, itt came. 
Now thy reward, and witnesse to thy fame. 160 

When night returns, repeat again this song. 
The Season sha'nt be cold, nor shall itt then, be long. 

ON EASTER DAY 

Hark! sure I hear Vrania play, 

I hear her tune the heavenly strings. 
Some wondrous tidings, sure she brings, 



Countess of Winchilsea 221 

O now! methinks, I hear her say, 
The Sun of Righteousnesse today, 
Must break, must rise, must come away, 
With healing in his wings. 

'Tis done, behold the God appear, 

Fulfilling all that he has said; 

Captivity, is Captive led, 
Death, of his old in venom' d spear 
Behold disarm'd, and Conquered here; 
The Grave, no more the Members fear, 

Since risen in the Head. 

In vain the silly Rabbins strove, 

A Strattagem of force to find. 

The Lord Omnipotent to bind. 
Too weak, to stop Almighty love, 
Their guard, their stone, their seal must prove, 
The trembling Earth, does all remove 

Like dust before the wind. 

Lett ransom'd men in praises vye, 
Lett ev'ry faithfull Soul, re Joyce, 
And tune to Angels notes, his voyce. 

Hail! Son of David, lett them cry. 

Hail! Thou that livest, and didst dye, 

That left'st thy glorious Seat, on high. 
And Sufferings mad'st thy choyce. 

Unfold, ye Everlasting Gates, 

That guard the great Jehova's Towers, 
Those sacred, my stick leaves of yours. 

The King of Glory for you waites; 
Receive him, oh! ye blissfull Bowers, 
Ye Thrones, Dominions, Scepter'd Powers, 
He Comes! accomplish'd are the hours, 

Appointed by the Fates. 



222 The Poems of Anne 

Be now, thy foes, thy footstool made, 
Exalted high, on God's right hand, 
A Preist for ever may'st thou stand, 
Thy dear Redeeming blood, to plead, 
Th' imperfect Sacrafice, to aid. 
Which is, by wretched man convey'd 
And never must be scann'd. 



HALLELUJAH 

Seraphick sound! Eternal Praise! 

Upon whose wings, my Soul I raise. 

Till Heaven is reach'd by heavenly Layes. 

Our Hallelujah's hence, that fly. 
Repose not, till they meet on high 
With those, the Church tryumphant cry. 

This Sacred Musick, in my ear, 
I cry, transported, God is here, 
Such tastes of Glory, doe appear. 

Before the dread Jehovah's seat. 
Glad Cherubims, this praise repeat, 
Whilst miriads, worship att his feet. 

Mongst whom, my searching Faith can see 
A voyce, and Lyre, bestow'd shall be, 
And Hallelujah's sung by mee. 

My soul, which hungars here, for Grace, 
Attending Spirits, there, shall place, 
To see th' Eternal, face to face. 

This hope makes all afflictions light, 
Directs my heart, and actions right, 
My cloud by day, my fire by night. 



Countess of Winchilsea 223 

Thy Saints, throo' hopes refreshment, shall 
With hourly Hallelujah's fall, 
Untill the great Arcangell's call. 

Which hasten Lord, thy Chosen Pray, 
Th' Elect, all languish for that day, 
Oh come! Lord Jesus, come away! 

SOME KEFLECTIONS 

In a Dialogue Between TERESA and ARDELIA. On the 2"" 
and 3"'^ Verses of y^ 75"* Psalm 

My feet were allmost gone, my treadings had well nigh 
slipped; and why, I was greived att the wicked, I doe also 
see the Vngodly in such prosperity. 

Teresa 

Heither, Ardelia, I your stepps persue. 
No solitude shou'd e're exclude a freind, 

Your greifs I see, and as to freindship due, 

Demand the cause, to which these sorrows tend, 
What their beginnings were, and what may be their 

end? 

Ardelia 

Alas! Ardelia is not vainly sad. 

Nor to the clouds, that shade my carefull brow. 

Can fancys, dark and false suggestions add, 
But my Teresa, since you wish to know, 
I all my cares will tell, and all my greifs will show. 10 

How, I my God, and his just laws adore, 

How I have serv'd him, with my early years, 

How I have lov'd his Name, and fear'd his Pow'r, 
Wittnesse his Temples, where my falling teares, 
Have follow'd still my faults, and usher'd in my 
fears. 



224 The Poems op Anne 

But oh! this God, the Glorious Architect 

Of this fair world, of this large Globe we see, 

Seems those who trust him most, most to neglect, 
Else my Teresa, else, how could itt be. 

That all his storms attend, and tempests fall on me. 20 

The Proud he hates, yett me he does expose 
Empty of all things, naked to their scorn. 

His world, on them he liberally bestows, 

Theirs are his Vines, his feilds, his flocks, his corn. 
And all that can sustain, and all that can adorn. 

These are the men, posses the mighty store, 

Compasse the Earth, and with the boundlesse Deep 

All they bestow, receive again, with more; 
Whilst I, in fears to loose, and cares to keep. 
Obtain but daily bread, with interrupted sleep. 30 

Teresa 

Ardelia hold, if more thou hast to say 
On this pernitious subject, lett it dye; 

The subtill Fiend, that leads thy soul astray, 
Thou doest not in this hour of sin, descry, 
Oh! if we wander once, how soon the serpent's nigh. 

Art thou content, to have thy portion here, 
The Tyrian purple, and the costly fare. 

The purchase waits thee, but will cost thee dear, 
For mighty sums of Vice, thou must not spare. 
Do, as the wicked does, and thou, with him may'st 

share ? 40 

Canst thou repine, that Earth is not thy lott, 
And in that want, thy bounteous God distrust. 

Confining all his mercys to that spott? 

Others of weight, acknowledge sure, we must. 
Or be to truth oppos'd, and Providence unjust. 



Countess of Winchilsea 225 

Who, seals thy forehead, when the Plague is nigh, 
Ere the destroying Angel can descend ? 

Who, guides th' avenging shafts, that o're thee fly ? 
When thou didst yett upon the breast depend, 
Who was thy Father then, and who was then thy 

freind? 50 

Who gave his blood, when thine could not suffice 
To pay thy debt, who for thee sigh'd and wept. 

And bought that Glory, att a wondrous price, 
Which is to future Ages for thee kept, 
Unlesse thou chuse this world, and that to come, 
neglect ? 

Who leads thee throo' this Vale of tears below. 
To bring thee to thy Country, safe att last? 

Who in the way, does all thou want'st below, 
For more than this, his sacred word n'ere passt. 
And all thou truly want'st, assuredly thou hast? 60 

What if to prove thee, when the billows rise. 

He from thy danger turns, and seems to sleep, 
Wilt thou to murmures, strait convert thy crys. 
The crowd we see, the shoar may safely keep. 
Whilst the distinguish' d twelve are threatn'd by the 
deep ? 

Ardelia 

Teresa, from my guilty dream, I wake. 

The truth has reach' d me, and my fault I find. 

Forgive me God, forgive the short mistake. 
How cou'd itt enter my deluded mind. 

That all, both Worlds cou'd give, was for one Wretch 
design'd? 70 

I saw the Mighty, and began to slide. 
My feet were gone, but I return again. 



226 The Poems of Anne 

And wou'd not with them here, the spoyles devide; 
Nor look'd I att the end of Glorious men, 
Nor thought how lost they were, nor how abandon'd 
then. 

A while, the Servant of Elisha, soe 

Altho' his Master's pow'r with Heav'n he knew, 

His faith forgoes, surrounded with the foe. 

Till by the Prophett's pray'r, the Vaile withdrew 
And show'd the doubted aid of Providence in view. 80 

THE lOTH PART OF THE 119TH PSALM PARAPHRASED 

In the manner of a Prayer from the 1st to y« 6th Verse 

Thy workmanship, O Lord, I am. 

Thy hands have moulded, and designed, 

And for thy Glory, rais'd this frame, 
Which is to thee, again resigned. 

O thou ! who did'st create the whole, 

Cheifly regard the nobler part, 
With understanding cloath my Soul, 

And plant thy doctrine in my heart. 

Then shall the Pious and the Just, 
Beholding me, their hopes improve, 

Then shall my full rewarded trust. 
Assure their faith, and fix their love. 

'Tis of thy mercy, Lord I know 
That I afflictions have sustain'd ; 

Afflictions, from thy mercy flow, 

By which we are from sin restrain' d. 

O ! Lett that mercy, still to me 
(According to thy gracious word) 

A just proportion' d Cordial be, 

When thou these tryals doest affoard. 



Countess of Winchilsea 227 

That I may live, thy mercy send, 

From thence, my vital breath I draw, 

My life does on thy love depend, 
And all my love, is on thy law. 

THE 146TH PSALM PARAPHRAS'D 

Oh! praise the Lord, and lett his fame be told, 
Oh! now my Soul, thy best affections raise, 

To him, who gave, and does thy being hold. 

Return thy gratefull Hymns, and thy loud songs of Praise. 

In man, in Princes, who the Scepter's sway. 
Can there be faith repos'd, can there be trust? 

Their promises, alas! are vain as they, 

Their promises are air, and they alas! are dust. 

The breath of man, shall certainly expire, 

His Soul forsake him, and his thoughts shall dye. 

His body, to the lowly Grave retire, 

Who then can trust on man, who, can on man relye. 

He only can be safe, he only blest. 

Above the reach of falsehood, or decay. 
His hopes at Anchor, and his fears att rest, 

Whose trust is in the Lord, whose God, is all his stay. 

He who the Heavens, and Air, and Earth, the Deep 

With all therein, created by his word, 
His word to all Eternity shall keep ; 

His Will is sacred truth, and Power, is with the Lord. 

Mercy, and Justice, still with him remain, 

That feeds the hungry, this th' oprest releives ; 

Mercy, dissolves th' afflicted Pris'ner's chain, 

To long benighted Eyes, mercy the light retreives. 



228 The Poems op Anne 

The Righteous, are the Lord's peculiar care, 
To him, for refuge, the poor Widdows come, 

The Fatherlesse, is God's adopted Heir, 

The stranger too, in God, is sure to find an home. 

Those that are fallen, he again erects. 

The wicked, that persue ungodly ways. 
He searches out, he frustrates, and detects. 

He mines their designs, and on them builds his praise. 

Thy Lord, O Sion! this, thy Lord, is King; 

Throughout all ages, shall his reign endure, 
Thou, Everlasting praise, may'st to him sing, 

And ever may'st thou rest, beneath his love, secure. 

GOLD IS TRY'D IN THE FIRE, AND ACCEPTABLE 
MEN IN THE TIME OF ADVERSITY 

If all th' appointed days of man were fair, 

And his few hours, mov'd o're him, like a breeze. 
That gently plays among the trees, 

Soft, and smooth, and void of care, 

As infants balmy slumber are. 

How, shou'd we then assured bee, 
That even temper, we might see. 
Were Vertue, not prosperity. 

Not so, th' Almighty wisdom has design' d, 
We shou'd in ease, and luxury remain, 
Untry'd by sorrow, or by pain. 

No, the searcher of the mind. 

Unshaken vertue, there must find, 
Tho' low, as to the dunghill brought, 
With him, whose sifted patience taught. 
He serv'd for Duty, else for naught. 



Countess of Winchilsea 229 

We see the wealthyest ore the earth does hide, 

Is not receav'd or pass'd for currant gold, 

Nor by the greedy Miser, told, 
Till by the cleansing furnace try'd, 
It does the sevenfold test, abide; 

So must the path of greif, be trod, 
(That certain, purifying roade) 

By all th' accepted sons of God. 

Who in this method, to our needs, has bow'd. 

Nor is itt reason guides, when we complain, 

Favours, alas! but fall in vain. 
And the good things, that are allow'd. 
Instead of happy, make us proud, 

Lett us not then refuse this part, 

But wisely learn, the saving art, 

Our tears, to comforts to convert. 

THE POOR MAN'S LAMB 

Or, Nathan'' s Parable to David after the Murder of Uriah, and 

his Marriage ivith Bathsheba 

Turn'd into Verse and Paraphrased 

Now spent the alter' d King, in am'rous Cares, 

The Hours of sacred Hymns and solemn Pray'rs: 

In vain the Altar waits his slow returns. 

Where unattended Incense faintly burns: 

In vain the whisp'ring Priests their Fears express, 

And of the Change a thousand Causes guess. 

Heedless of all their Censures He retires. 

And in his Palace feeds his secret Fires; 

Impatient, till from Rabhah Tydings tell. 

That near those Walls the poor Uriah fell, 10 

Led to the Onset by a Chosen Few, 

Who at the treacherous Signal, soon withdrew; 



230 The Poems of Anne 

Nor to his Rescue e'er return'd again, 

Till by fierce Ammon^s Sword they saw the Victim slain. 

'Tis pass'd, 'tis done! the holy Marriage-Knot, 

Too strong to be unty'd, at last is cut. 

And now to Bathsheha the King declares, 

That with his Heart, the Kingdom too is hers; 

That Israel's Throne, and longing Monarch's Arms 

Are to be fill'd but with her widow'd Charms. 20 

Nor must the Days of formal Tears exceed. 

To cross the Living, and abuse the Dead. 

This she denies; and signs of Grief are worn; 

But mourns no more than may her Face adorn, 

Give to those Eyes, which Love and Empire fir'd, 

A melting softness more to be desir'd; 

Till the fixt Time, tho' hard to be endur'd. 

Was pass'd, and a sad Consort's Name procur'd: 

When, with the Pomp that suits a Prince's Thought, 

By Passion sway'd, and glorious Woman taught, 30 

A Queen she's made, than Michal seated higher. 

Whilst light unusual Airs prophane the hallow'd Lyre. 

Where art thou Nathan? where's that Spirit now, 
Giv'n to brave Vice, tho' on a Prince's Brow? 
In what low Cave, or on what Desert Coast, 
Now Virtue wants it, is thy Presence lost? 

But lo! he comes, the Rev'rend Bard appears, 
Defil'd with Dust his awful silver Hairs, 
And his rough Garment, wet with falling Tears. 
The King this mark'd, and conscious wou'd have fled, 40 
The healing Balm which for his Wounds was shed: 
Till the more wary Priest the Serpents Art, 
Join'd to the Dove-like Temper of his Heart, 
And thus retards the Prince just ready now to part. 
Hear me, the Cause betwixt two Neighbours hear, 



Countess op Winchilsea 231 

Thou, who for Justice doth the Sceptre bear: 

Help the Opprest, nor let me weep alone 

For him, that calls for Succour from the Throne. 

Good Princes for Protection are Ador'd, 

And Greater by the Shield than by the Sword. 50 

This clears the Doubt, and now no more he fears 

The Cause his Own, and therefore stays and hears: 

When thus the Prophet: 

— In a flow'ry Plain 
A King-like Man does in full Plenty reign ; 
Casts round his Eyes, in vain, to reach the Bound, 
Which Jordan'' s Flood sets to his fertile Ground: 
Countless his Flocks, whilst Lebanon contains 
A Herd as large, kept by his numerous Swains, 
That fill with morning Bellowings the cool Air, 
And to the Cedar's shade at scorching Noon repair. 60 
Near to this Wood a lowly Cottage stands. 
Built by the humble Owner's painful Hands; 
Fenc'd by a Stubble-roof, from Rain and Heat, 
Secur'd without, within all Plain and Neat. 
A Field of small Extent surrounds the place. 
In which One single Ewe did sport and graze: 
This his whole Stock, till in full time there came, 
To bless his utmost Hopes, a snowy Lamb ; 
Which, lest the Season yet too Cold might prove. 
And Northern Blasts annoy it from the Grove, 70 

Or tow'ring Fowl on the weak Prey might sieze, 
(For with his Store his Fears must too increase) 
He brings it Home, and lays it by his Side, 
At once his Wealth, his Pleasure and his Pride ; 
Still bars the Door, by Labour call'd away. 
And, when returning at the Close of Day, 
With One small Mess himself, and that sustains, 
And half his Dish it shares, and half his slender Gains. 



232 The Poems of Anne 

When to the great Man's table now there comes 

A Lord as great, followed by hungry Grooms: 80 

For these must be provided sundry Meats, 

The best for Some, for Others coarser Gates. 

One Servant, diligent above the rest 

To help his Master to contrive the Feast, 

Extols the Lamb was nourished with such Care, 

So fed, so lodg'd, it must be Princely Fare; 

And having this, my Lord his own may spare. 

In haste he sends, led by no Law, but Will, 

Not to entreat, or purchase, but to Kill. 

The Messenger's arriv'd: the harmless Spoil, 90 

Unus'd to fly, runs Bleating to the Toil: 

Whilst for the Innocent the Owner fear'd, 

And, sure wou'd move, cou'd Poverty be heard. 

Oh spare (he cries) the Product of my Cares, 

My Stock'' s Encrease, the Blessing on my PrayWs', 

My growing Hope, and Treasure of my Life! 

More was he speaking, when the murd'ring Knife 

Shew'd him, his Suit, tho' just, must be deny'd, 

And the white Fleece in its own Scarlet dy'd; 

Whilst the poor helpless Wretch stands weeping by, 100 

And lifts his Hands for Justice to the Sky. 

Which he shall find, th' incensed King replies. 
When for the proud Offence th' Oppressor dies. 
O Nathan! by the Holy Name I swear. 
Our Land such Wrongs unpunished shall not bear 
If, with the Fault, th' Offender thou declare. 

To whom the Prophet, closing with the Time, 
Thou art the Man replies, and thine th' ill-natur'd Crime. 
Nor think, against thy Place, or State, I err; 
A Pow'r above thee does this Charge prefer; 110 

Urg'd by whose Spirit, hither am I brought 
T' expostulate his Goodness and thy Fault; 



Countess op Winohilsea 233 

To lead thee back to those forgotten Years, 

In Labour spent, and lowly Rustick Cares, 

When in the Wilderness thy Flocks but few 

Thou didst the Shepherd's simple Art pursue 

Thro' crusting Frosts, and penetrating Dew: 

Till wondring Jesse saw six Brothers past, 

And Thou Elected, Thou the Least and Last ; 

A Sceptre to thy Rural Hand convey'd, 120 

And in thy Bosom Royal Beauties laid; 

A lovely Princess made thy Prize that Day, 

When on the shaken Ground the Giant lay 

Stupid in Death, beyond the Reach of Cries 

That bore thy shouted Fame to list'ning Skies, 

And drove the flying Foe as fast away, 

As Winds, of old. Locusts to EgypVs Sea. 

Thy Heart with Love, thy Temples with Renown, 

Th' All-giving Hand of Heav'n did largely crown. 

Whilst yet thy Cheek was spread with youthful Down. 130 

What more cou'd craving Man of God implore? 

Or what for favour'd Man cou'd God do more? 

Yet cou'd not these, nor Israel's Throne, suffice 

Intemp'rate Wishes, drawn thro' wand'ring Eyes. 

One Beauty (not thy own) and seen by chance, 

Melts down the Work of Grace with an alluring Glance; 

Chafes the Spirit, fed by sacred Art, 

And blots the Title after God's own Heart ; 

Black Murder breeds to level at his Head, 

Who boasts so fair a Part'ner of his Bed, 140 

Nor longer must possess those envy'd Charms, 

The single Treasure of his House, and Arms: 

Giving, by this thy Fall, cause to Blaspheme 

To all the Heathen the Atmighty Name. 

For which the Sword shall still thy Race pursue, 

And, in revolted Israels scornful View, 



234 The Poems of Anne 

Thy captiv'd Wives shall be in Triumph led 

Unto a bold Usurper's shameful Bed; 

Who from thy Bowels sprung shall seize thy Throne, 

And scourge thee by a Sin beyond thy own. 150 

Thou hast thy Fault in secret Darkness done; 

But this the World shall see before the Noonday's Sun. 

Enough ! the King, enough ! the Saint replies. 
And pours his swift Repentance from his Eyes ; 
Falls on the Ground and tears the Nuptial Vest, 
By which his Crime's Completion was exprest: 
Then with a Sigh blasting to Carnal Love, 
Drawn deep as Hell, and piercing Heaven, above 
Let 3fe (he cries) let Me attend his Rod, 
For / have sinn'd, for I have lost my God. 160 

Hold! (says the Prophet) of that Speech beware, 
God ne'er was lost, unless by Man's Despair. 
The Wound that is thus willingly reveal' d, 
Th' Almighty is as willing should be heal'd. 
Thus wash'd in Tears, thy Soul as fair does show 
As the first Fleece, which on the Lamb does grow, 
Or on the Mountain's top the lately fallen Snow. 
Yet to the World that Justice may appear 
Acting her Part impartial, and severe, 
The Offspring of thy Sin shall soon resign 170 

That Life, for which thou must not once repine; 
But with submissive Grief his Fate deplore, 
And bless the Hand, that does inflict no more. 

Shall I then pay but Part, and owe the Whole? 
My Body's Fruit, for my offending Soul? 
Shall I no more endure (the King demands) 
And 'scape thus lightly his ofiPended Hands? 
Oh! let him All resume, my Crown, my Fame; 



Countess of Winchilsea 235 

Reduce me to the Nothing, whence I came; 

Call back his Favours, faster than he gave; 180 

And, if but Pardon' d, strip me to my Grave: 

Since (tho' he seems to Lose) He surely Wins, 
Who gives but earthly Comforts for his Sins. 

THE SECOND CHAPTEK OF THE WISDOM OF 
SOLOMON PAKAPHRASED 

The first twelve Verses, being an Introduction 

How weak is man, that wou'd himself persuade 

Out of his Interest, and his Tempter aid; 

Mislead by present joys, and human pride, 

Wou'd gladly lay his future hopes aside. 

Uncloath himself, of all he holds Devine, 

And to the Earth, his ashes wou'd confine; 

Consent his Soul, all pains on itt to spare, 

Shou'd vanish, like the soft, and silent air; 

This Doctrine, which in ancient times was penn'd, 

Th' industrious Devil, took care shou'd still descend, 10 

And we by Atheists now, the same are told. 

Which Israel's wisest Prince, describes of old. 

THE CHAPTER BEGINS 

Thus reason'd they, said he, but not aright. 

Deluded, by the charms of vain delight. 

Tho' life be short, how tedious is the day, 

Which some new pleasure, does not drive away ? 

Death, hastens on, all human things to seize. 

And there's no remedy, for that desease ; 

None from the Grave return, not Moses' Laws, 

Have seen him come, to vindicate their cause. 20 

Chance made the World, and the same hand of Chance 



236 The Poems of Anne 

Does blindly man, into that World advance ; 

And when the date of certain years expires, 

As he had never been, he back retires: 

That active fire, which annimat's the heart,. 

And thence, all life, and motion does impart, 

By some contending Element oppresst, 

Extinguish't fails, and quitts the darken'd brest, 

The Vapour, in our nostrills, stealls away, 

And all that now remains is common clay. 30 

Time, preys upon our memory, and name, 

And deep oblivion, swallows up our fame; 

Like a swift cloud, we passe unheeded by. 

No track is left, no mark where itt did fly, 

Nor shall itt e're return, to shade the sky. 

Since past, and future, we att distance see, 

And present time, can only usefull bee, 

Voluptuous, and in pleasures lett us live, 

And freely spend, what moments we receive. 

Still, lett us gay, and warm affections hold, 40 

And when in Age, forgett thatt we are old. 

Roses, about our youthful tresses tye, 

Roses, shall when they fall, their place supply. 

The chearfuU spring, shall round our temples twine, 

And our full bowls, flow with Autumnal Wine. 

The pollish'd skin, with ointments shall be gay, 

Circling perfumes, shall usher on the way. 

And soft harmonious airs, about us play. 

Diffusing as we passe, luxuriant Bliss, 

This, is our Portion, and our Lott, is this, 50 

Justice, shall lay aside her uselesse scales, 
And force, shall justice be, when force prevailes; 
No Law shall govern, no dull Rule take place, 
The Widdow, nor the hoary head find grace ; 
Oppression, shall the righteous man devour. 



Countess of Winchilsea 237 

Fassion'd by Conscience, for the Tyrant's pow'r, 

Who meekly yeilds to wrong, or vile disgrace, 

Yett, from th' Immortal God derives his Race; 

And by himself, is arrogantly stil'd 

Of Him he worships, the apparent Child. 60 

Him, lett us wait for, that upbraids us still, 

"With breach of Laws, and Education ill; 

That but at distance, views our loose delight, 

And blasts our mirth, with his reproachfull sight; 

Who, not like us, his youth to pleasure gives. 

But singular, and solitary lives; 

And, does his Eyes on distant prospects bend. 

Saying, the Just is blessed in his end; 

That lett us hasten, and his patience prove, 

And his cool temper, with rough usage move; 70 

If Son to Him, whom he Almighty calls. 

He sure will save, when in our hands he falls. 

Let us in shame, and tortures make him dye. 

And so his truth, and his Protectour try. 

Full place, did such immaginations find 

With men in mists of Sin, and errour blind: 

That knew not God, nor did his Laws regard, 

Undmindfull of the Work, or the Reward 

That shall on blameless Souls, here-after rest, 

When with Eternity of Pleasures blesst, 80 

God, stamp' d His Immage, on created Earth, 

And made itt so. Immortal in itts birth; 

And tho' th' infernal Fiend (with envy fill'd) 

Brought Death into the world, and some has kill'd, 

Yett, only those, that do his part embrace, 

Shall fall to Him, and his appointed place. 



238 The Poems of Anne 



JEALOUSIE IS THE KAGE OF A MAN 

Whilst with his falling wings, the courtly Dove 
Sweeps the low earth, and singles out his Love, 
Now murmurs soft, then with a rowling note 
Extends his crop, and fills his am'rous throate, 
On ev'ry side accosts the charming Fair, 
Turns round, and bows with an inticing ayre, 
She, carelessly neglecting all his pain. 
Or shifts her ground, or pecks the scatter'd grain. 
But if he cease, and through the flight wou'd range, 
(For though renown'd for truth, e'vn Doves will change) 
The mildnesse of her nature laid aside, 
The seeming coldnesse, and the carelesse pride, 
On the next Rival, in a rage she flies; 
Smooth, ev'ry clinging plume, with anger lies, 
Employs in feeble fight her tender beck, 
And shakes the Favrites, parti-colour'd neck. 
Thus, jealousy, through ev'ry species moves; 
And if so furious, in the gallesse Doves, 
No wonder, that th' experienc'd Hebrew sage, 
Of Man, pronounc'd itt the extremest Rage. 

ALL IS VANITY 



How vain is Life! which rightly we compare 

To flying Posts, that haste away; 
To Plants, that fade with the declining Day; 

To Clouds, that sail amidst the yielding Air; 
Till by Extention into that they flow. 

Or, scatt'ring on the World below. 
Are lost and gone, ere we can say they were; 

To Autumn- Leaves, which every Wind can chace; 



Countess of Winchilsea 239 

To rising Bubbles, on the Waters Face; 

To fleeting Dreams, that will not stay, 10 

Nor in th' abused Fancy dance, 

When the returning Rays of Light, 
Resuming their alternate Right, 

Break on th' ill-order' d Scene on the fantastick Trance: 
As weak is Man, whilst Tenant to the Earth ; 
As frail and as uncertain all his Ways, 
From the first moment of his weeping Birth, 
Down to the last and best of his few restless Days; 

When to the Land of Darkness he retires 
From disappointed Hopes, and frustrated Desires; 20 

Reaping no other Fruit of all his Pain 
Bestow'd whilst in the vale of Tears below, 

But this unhappy Truth, at last to know, 
That Vanity'' s our Lot, and all Mankind is Vain. 

II 

If past the hazard of his tendrest Years, 

Neither in thoughtless Sleep opprest, 

Nor poison' d with a tainted Breast, 
Loos'd from the infant Bands and female Cares, 

A studious Boy, advanc'd beyond his Age, 
Wastes the dim Lamp, and turns the restless Page; 30 

For some lov'd Book prevents the rising Day, 

And on it, stoln aside, bestows the Hours of Play ; 
Him the observing Master do's design 
For search of darkned Truths and Mysteries Divine; 

Bids him with unremitted Labour trace 
The Rise of Empires, and their various Fates, 
The several Tyrants o'er the several States, 

To BabeVs lofty Towers, and warlike Nimrod's Race; 
Bids him in Paradice the Bank survey. 

Where Man, new-moulded from the temper'd Clay, 40 



240 The Poems of Anne 

(Till fir'd with Breath Divine) a helpless Figure lay: 

Could he be led thus far — What were the Boast, 

What the Reward of all the Toil it cost, 
What from that Land of ever-blooming Spring, 

For our Instruction could he bring. 
Unless, that having Humane Nature found 
Unseparated from its Parent Ground, 
(Howe'er we vaunt our Elevated Birth) 

The Epicure in soft Array, 

The lothsome Beggar, that before 50 

His rude unhospitable Door, 

Unpity'd but by Brutes, a broken Carcass lay, 
Were both alike deriv'd from the same common Earth? 

But ere the Child can to these Heights attain. 

Ere he can in the Learned Sphere arise; 

A guiding Star, attracting to the Skies, 
A fever, seizing the o'er-labour'd Brain, 

Sends him, perhaps, to Death's concealing Shade; 
Where, in the Marble Tomb now silent laid. 

He better do's that useful Doctrine show, 60 

(Which all the sad Assistants ought to know. 

Who round the Grave his short continuance mourn) 
That first from Dust we came, and must to Dust return. 

Ill 

A holder Youth, grown capable of Arms, 
Bellona courts with her prevailing Charms; 

Bids th' inchanting Trumpet sound, 

Loud as Triumph, soft as Love, 

Striking now the Poles above, 

Then descending from the Skies, 

Soften every falling Note ; 70 

As the harmonious Lark that sings and flies. 
When near the Earth, contracts her narrow Throat, 



Countess of Winchilsea 241 

And warbles on the Ground: 
Shews the proud Steed, impatient of the Check, 

'Gainst the loudest Terrors Proof, 
Pawing the Valley with his steeled Hoof, 
With Lightning arm'd his Eyes, with Thunder cloth'd 
his Neck; 

Who on th' advanced Foe, (the Signal giv'n) 
Flies, like a rushing Storm by mighty Whirlwinds 
driv'n ; 

Lays open the Records of Fame, 80 

No glorious Deed omits, no Man of mighty Name ; 

Their Stratagems, their Tempers she'll repeat, 

From Alexandei'^s, (truly stil'd the Geeat) 

From Ccesar's on the World's Imperial Seat, 

To Tur Ernie's Conduct, and to Conde's Heat. 
'Tis done! and now th' ambitious Youth disdains 

The safe, but harder Labours of the Gown, 

The softer pleasures of the Courtly Town, 
The once lov'd rural Sports, and Chaces on the Plains; 

Does with the Soldier's Life the Garb assume, 90 

The gold Embroid'ries, and the graceful Plume; 

Walks haughty in a Coat of Scarlet Die, 

A Colour well contrived to cheat the Eye, 
Where richer Blood, alas! may undistinguisht lye. 

And oh! too near that wretched Fate attends; 

Hear it ye Parents, all ye weeping Friends! 

Thou fonder Maid! won by those gaudy Charms, 
(The destin'd Prize of his Victorious Arms) 

Now fainting Dye upon the mournful Sound, 
That speaks his hasty Death, and paints the fatal 
Wound! 100 

Trail all your Pikes, dispirit every Drum, 

March in a slow Procession from afar, 

Ye silent, ye dejected Men of War! 



242 The Poems of Anne 

Be still the Hautboys, and the Flute be dumb! 
Display no more, in vain, the lofty Banner; 
For see! where on the Bier before ye lies 
The pale, the fall'n, th' untimely Sacrifice 
To your mistaken Shrine, to your false Idol Honour! 

IV 

As Vain is Beauty, and as short her Power; 

Tho' in its proud, and transitory Sway, 110 

The coldest Hearts and wisest Heads obey 

That gay fantastick Tyrant of an Hour. 

On Beauty's Charms, (altho' a Father's Right, 

Tho' grave Seleucus! to thy Royal Side 

By holy Vows fair Stratonice be ty'd) 

With anxious Joy, with dangerous Delight, 

Too often gazes thy unwary Son, 

Till past all Hopes, expiring and undone, 

A speaking Pulse the secret Cause impart ; 

The only time, when the Physician's Art 120 

Could ease that lab'ring Grief, or heal a Lover's Smart. 
See Great Antonius now impatient stand. 

Expecting, with mistaken Pride, 
On Cydnus crowded Shore, on Cydnus fatal Strand, 
A Queen, at his Tribunal to be try'd, 
A Queen that arm'd in Beauty, shall deride 
His feeble Rage, and his whole Fate command: 
O'er the still Waves her burnisht Galley moves, 
Row'd by the Graces, whilst officious Loves 
To silken Cords their busie Hands apply, 130 

Or gathering all the gentle Gales that fly. 
To their fair Mistress with those Spoils repair. 

And from their purple Wings disperse the balmy Air. 
Hov'ring Perfumes ascend in od'rous Clouds, 
Curl o'er the Barque, and play among the Shrouds; 



Countess of Winchilsea 243 

Whilst gently dashing every Silver Oar, 

Guided by the Rules of Art, 

With tuneful Instruments designed 
To soften, and subdue the stubborn Mind, 
A strangely pleasing and harmonious Part 140 

In equal Measures bore. 
Like a new Venus on her native Sea, 

In midst of the transporting Scene, 
(Which Pen or Pencil imitates in vain) 
On a resplendent and conspicuous Bed, 
With all the Pride of Persia loosely spread. 

The lovely Syrene lay. 

Which but discern'd from the yet distant Shore, 

Th' amazed Emperor could hate no more; 

No more a baffled Vengeance could pursue; 150 

But yielding still, still as she nearer drew, 

When Cleopatra anchor'd in the Bay, 

Where every Charm cou'd all its Force display, 
Like his own Statue stood, and gaz'd the World away. 

Where ends alas! this Pageantry and State; 

Where end the Triumphs of this conqu'ring Face, 
Envy'd of Roman Wives, and all the Female Race? 

Oh swift Vicissitude of Beauty's Fate! 

Now in her Tomb withdrawn from publick Sight, 
From near Captivity and Shame, 160 

The Vanquish'd, the abandon'd Dame 

Proffers the Arm, that held another's Right, 

To the destructive Snake's more just Embrace, 
And courts deforming Death, to mend his Leaden Pace. 

V 

But Wit shall last (the vaunting Poet cries) 
Th' immortal Streams that from Parnassus flow. 
Shall make his never-fading Lawrels grow. 



244 The Poems of Anne 

Above this mouldring Earth to flourish in the Skies: 
"And when his Body falls in Funeral Fire 

When late revolving Ages shall consume 170 

The very Pillars, that support his Tomb, 
" His name shall live, and his best Part aspire. 

Deluded Wretch! grasping at future Praise, 
Now planting, with mistaken Care, 

Round thy enchanted Palace in the Air, 

A Grove, which in thy Fancy time shall raise, 

A Grove of soaring Palms, and ever-lasting Bays ; 

Could'st Thou alas! to such Renown arrive. 

As thy Imaginations wou'd contrive; 

Should numerous Cities, in a vain contest, 180 

Struggle for thy famous Birth; 

Should the sole Monarch of the conquer'd Earth, 
His wreathed Head upon thy Volume rest ; 
Like 3faro, could'st thou justly claim, 
Amongst th' inspired tuneful Race, 
The highest Room, the undisputed Place; 
And after near Two Thousand Years of Fame, 
Have thy proud Work to a new People shown; 

Th' unequal'd Poems made their own. 
In such a Dress, in such a perfect Stile 190 

As on his Labours Dry den now bestows. 
As now from Drydeii's just Improvement flows, 

In every polish'd Verse throughout the British Isle; 
What Benefit alas! would to thee grow? 
What Sense of Pleasure wou'dst thou know? 
What swelling Joy? what Pride? what Glory have, 
When in the Darkness of the abject Grave, 
Insensible, and Stupid laid below, 
No Atom of thy Heap, no Dust wciu'd move. 

For all the Airy Breath that form'd thy Praise 
above? 200 



Countess of Winghilsea 245 

VI 

True, says the Man to Luxury inclin'd; 

Without the Study of uncertain Art, 
Without much Labour of the Mind, 

Meer uninstructed Nature will impart. 
That Life too swiftly flics, and leaves all good behind. 

Sieze then, my Friends, (he cries) the present Hour; 
The Pleasure which to that belongs, 

The Feasts, th' overflowing Bowls, the Mirth, the Songs, 

The Orange-Bloom, that with such Sweetness blows, 
Anac7'eon''s celebrated Rose, 210 

The Hyacinth, with every beateous Flower, 
Which just this happy Moment shall disclose. 
Are out of Fortune's reach, and all within our Power. 
Such costly Garments let our Slaves prepare. 
As for the gay Demetrius were design'd; 
Where a new Sun of radiant Diamonds shin'd, 
Where the enameFd Earth, and scarce-discerned Air, 

With a transparent Sea were seen, 
A Sea composed of the Em'rald's Green, 
And with a golden Shore encompass'd round; 220 

Where every Orient Shell, of wondrous shape was found. 

The whole Creation on his Shoulders hung. 

The whole Creation with his wish comply' d. 
Did swiftly, for each Appetite provide, 
And fed them all when Young. 

No less, th' Assyrian Prince enjoy' d, 
Of Bliss too soon depriv'd, but never cloy'd, 

Whose Counsel let us still pursue. 
Whose Monument, did this Inscription shew 

To every Passenger, that trod the way, 230 

Where, with a slighting Hand, and scornful Smile 
The proud Effigies, on th' instructive Pile, 



246 The Poems of Anne 

A great Example lay. 
7, here Entomb'' d, did mighty Kingdoms sway, 
Tivo Cities rais''d in one prodigious Day: 
Thou wandh-ing Traveller, no longer gaze, 
No longer dwell upon this useless Place; 
Go Feed, and Drink, in Sports consume thy Life; 
For All that else we gain's not ivorth a Momenfs Strife. 
Thus! talks the Fool, whom no Restraint can bound, 
When now the Glass has gone a frequent round; 241 

When soaring Fancy lightly swims, 
Fancy, that keeps above, and dances o'er the Brims; 
Whilst weighty Reason sinks, and in the bot- 
tom's drown'd: 
Adds to his Own, an artificial Fire, 

Doubling ev'ry hot Desire, 
Till th' auxiliary Spirits, in a Flame, 
The Stomach's Magazine defy, 
That standing Pool, that helpless Moisture nigh 
Thro' every Vital part impetuous fly, 250 

And quite consume the Frame; 
When to the Under- world despis'd he goes, 
A pamper'd Carcase on the Worms bestows, 

Who rioting on the unusual Chear, 
As good a Life enjoy, as he could boast of here. 

VII 

But hold my Muse! thy farther Flight restrain. 

Exhaust not thy declining Force, 
Nor in a long, pursu'd, and breathless Course, 

Attempt, with slacken'd speed, to run 
Through ev'ry Vanity beneath the Sun, 260 

Lest thy o'erweary'd Reader, should complain, 
That of all Vanities beside. 



Countess of Winchilsea 247 

Which thine, or his Experience e'er have try'd, 

Thou art, too tedious Muse, most frivolous and vain; 
Yet, tell the Man, of an aspiring Thought, 

Of an ambitious, restless Mind, 
That can no Ease, no Satisfaction find, 
Till neighb'ring States are to Subjection brought. 

Till Universal Awe, enslav'd Mankind is taught; 

That, should he lead an Army to the Field, 270 

For whose still necessary Use, 
Th' extended Earth cou'd not enough produce. 
Nor Rivers to their Thirst a full Contentment yield; 
Yet, must their dark Reverse of Fate 
Roll round, within that Course of Years, 
Within the short, the swift, and fleeting Date 
Prescrib'd by Xerxes, when his falling Tears 
Bewail'd those Numbers, which his Sword employ'd, 

And false, Hyena-\.\ke, lamented and destroy'd. 

Tell Him, that does some stately Building raise, 280 

A Windsor or Versailles erect, 
And thorough all Posterity expect. 

With its unshaken Base, a firm unshaken Praise ; 
Tell Him, Judea's Temple is no more, 
Upon whose Splendour, Thousands heretofore 

Spent the astonish' d Hours, forgetful to adore: 
Tell him, into the Earth agen is hurl'd, 
That most stupendious Wonder of the World, 
Justly presiding o'er the boasted Seven, 
By humane Art and Industry design'd, 290 

This! the rich Draught of the Immortal Mind, 

The Architect of Heaven. 
Remember then, to fix thy Aim on High, 
Project, and build on t'other side the Sky, 
For, after all thy vain Expence below, 
Thou canst no Fame, no lasting Pleasure know; 



248 The Poems of Anne 

No Good, that shall not thy Embraces fly, 
Or thou from that be in a Moment caught. 
Thy Spirit to new Claims, new Int'rests brought, 
Whilst unconcern'd thy secret Ashes lye, 300 

Or stray about the Globe, O Man ordaiii'd to Dye! 

THE SPLEEN 
A Pindarik Poem 

What art thou, SPLEEN, which ev'ry thing dost ape ? 

Thou Proteus to abus'd Mankind, 

Who never yet thy real Cause cou'd find, 
Or fix thee to remain in one continued Shape. 

Still varying thy perplexing Form, 

Now a Dead Sea thou'lt represent, 

A Calm of stupid Discontent, 
Then, dashing on the Rocks wilt rage into a Storm. 

Trembling sometimes thou dost appear. 

Dissolved into a Panick Fear; 10 

On Sleep intruding dost thy Shadows spread, 

Thy gloomy Terrours round the silent Bed, 
And croud with boading Dreams the Melancholy 
Head; 

Or, when the Midnight Hour is told. 

And drooping Lids thou still dost waking hold, 

Thy fond Delusions cheat the Eyes, 

Before them antick Spectres dance, 
Unusual Fires their pointed Heads advance, 

And airy Phantoms rise. 

Such was the monstrous Vision seen, 20 

When Bi'utus (now beneath his Cares opprest. 
And all Rome^s Fortunes rolling in his Breast, 

Before Philipiri's latest Field, 
Before his Fate did to Octavius lead) 

Was vanquish' d by the Spleen. 



Countess of Winchilsea 249 

Falsly, the Mortal Part we blame 

Of our deprest, and pond'rous Frame, 

Which, till the First degrading Sin 

Let Thee, its dull Attendant, in. 

Still with the Other did comply, 30 

Nor clogg'd the Active Soul, dispos'd to fly. 
And range the Mansions of it's native Sky. 

Nor, whilst in his own Heaven he dwelt. 

Whilst Man his Paradice possest. 
His fertile Garden in the fragrant East, 

And all united Odours smelt. 

No armed Sweets, until thy Reign, 

Cou'd shock the Sense, or in the Face 

A flusht, unhandsom Colour place. 
Now the Jonquille o'ercomes the feeble Brain; 40 

We faint beneath the Aromatick Pain, 
Till some offensive Scent thy Pow'rs appease. 
And Pleasure we resign for short, and nauseous Ease. 

In ev'ry One thou dost possess, 

New are thy Motions, and thy Dress: 

Now in some Grove a list'ning Friend 

Thy false Suggestions must attend. 
Thy whisper'd Griefs, thy fancy'd Sorrows hear, 
Breath'd in a Sigh, and witnessed by a Tear; 

Whilst in the light, and vulgar Croud, 50 

Thy Slaves, more clamorous and loud. 
By Laughters unprovok'd, thy Influence too confess. 
In the Imperious Wife thou Vapours art. 

Which from overheated Passions rise 

In Clouds to the attractive Brain, 

Until descending thence again. 

Thro' the o'er-cast, and show'ring Eyes, 

Upon her Husband's soften'd Heart, 



250 The Poems of Anne 

He the disputed Point must yield, 
Something resign of the contested Field; 60 

Till Lordly Man, born to Imperial Sway, 
Compounds for Peace, to make that Right away, 
And Woman, arm'd with Spleen, do's servilely Obey. 

The Fool, to imitate the Wits, 

Complains of thy pretended Fits, 

And Dulness, born with him, wou'd lay 

Upon thy accidental Sway ; 

Because, sometimes, thou dost presume 

Into the ablest Heads to come: 

That, often. Men of Thoughts refin'd, 70 

Impatient of unequal Sence, 
Such slow Returns, where they so much dispense. 
Retiring from the Croud, are to thy Shades inclin'd. 

O'er me alas! thou dost too much prevail: 

I feel thy Force, whilst I against thee rail; 
I feel my Verse decay, and my crampt Numbers fail. 
Thro' thy black Jaundice I all Objects see. 

As Dark, and Terrible as Thee, 
My Lines decry' d, and my Employment thought 
An useless Folly, or presumptuous Fault: 80 

Whilst in the Muses Paths I stray. 
Whilst in their Groves, and by their secret Springs 
My Hand delights to trace unusual Things, 
And deviates from the known, and common way; 

Nor will in fading Silks compose 

Faintly th' inimitable Rose, 
Fill up an ill-drawn Bird, or paint on Glass 
The Sov''reign''s blurr'd and undistinguish'd Face, 
The threatning Angel, and the speaking Ass. 

Patron thou art to ev'ry gross Abuse, 90 

The sullen Husband's feign'd Excuse, 



Countess of Winchilsea 251 

When the ill Humour with his Wife he spends, 
And bears recruited Wit, and Spirits to his Friends. 
The Son of Bacchus pleads thy Pow'r, 
As to the Glass he still repairs. 
Pretends but to remove thy Cares, 
Snatch from thy Shades one gay, and smiling Hour, 
And drown thy Kingdom in a pvirple Show'r. 
When the Coquette, whom ev'ry Fool admires, 

Wou'd in Variety be Fair, 100 

And, changing hastily the Scene 
From Light, Impertinent, and Vain, 
Assumes a soft, a melancholy Air, 
And of her Eyes rebates the wand'ring Fires, 
The careless Posture, and the Head reclin'd, 

The thoughtful, and composed Face, 
Proclaiming the withdrawn, the absent Mind, 
Allows the Fop more liberty to gaze, 
Who gently for the tender Cause inquires; 
The Cause, indeed, is a Defect in Sense, 110 

Yet is the Spleeyi alledg'd, and still the dull Pretence. 
But these are thy fantastic Harms, 
The Tricks of thy pernicious Stage, 
Which do the weaker Sort engage; 
Worse are the dire Effects of thy more pow'rful Charms. 
By Thee Religion, all we know. 
That shou'd enlighten here below. 
Is veil'd in Darkness, and perplext 
With anxious Doubts, with endless Scruples vext. 
And some Restraint imply 'd from each perverted Text. 
Whilst Touch not. Taste not, what is freely giv'n, 121 
Is but thy niggard Voice, disgracing bounteous Heav'n. 
From Speech restrained, by thy Deceits abus'd, 
To Deserts banish'd, or in Cells reclus'd. 
Mistaken Vot'ries to the Pow'rs Divine, 



252 The Poems of Anne 

Whilst tliey a purer Sacrifice design, 
Do but the Spleen obey, and worship at thy Shrine. 
In vain to chase thee ev'ry Art we try. 
In vain all Remedies apply, 

In vain the Indian Leaf infuse, 130 

Or the parch'd Eastern Berry bruise ; 
Some pass, in vain, those Bounds, and nobler Liquors use. 
Now Harmony, in vain, we bring. 
Inspire the Flute, and touch the String. 
From Harmony no help is had; 
3Insick but soothes thee, if too sweetly sad, 
And if too light, but turns thee gayly Mad. 
Tho' the Physicians greatest Gains, 
Altho' his growing Wealth he sees 
Daily increas'd by Ladies Fees, 140 

Yet doft thou baffle all his studious Pains. 

Not skilful Lower thy Source cou'd find. 
Or thro' the well-dissected Body trace 
The secret, the mysterious ways, 
By which thou dost surprise, and prey upon the Mind. 
Tho' in the Search, too deep for Humane Thought, 

With unsuccessful Toil he wrought, 
'Till thinking Thee to've catch'd, Himself by thee 
was caught, 
Retain'd thy Pris'ner, thy acknowledg'd Slave, 
And sunk beneath thy Chain to a lamented Grave. 150 

A PINDARICK POEM 

Upon the Hurricane in November 1703, referring to this Text in 
Psalm 148. ver. S.Winds and Storms fulfilling his Word. 
With a Hymn composed of the 148th Psalm Paraphras'd 

You have obey'd, you Winds, that must fulfill 

The Great Disposer's righteous Will; 
Throughout the Land, unlimited you flew, 



Countess of Winchilsea 253 

' Nor sought, as heretofore, with Friendly Aid 

Only, new Motion to bestow 
Upon the sluggish Vapours, bred below, 
Condensing into Mists, and melancholy Shade. 
No more such gentle Methods you pursue, 
But marching now in terrible Array, 

Undistinguish'd was your Prey: 10 

In vain the Shrubs, with lowly Bent, 
Sought their Destruction to prevent; 
The Beech in vain, with out-stretch'd Arms, 
Deprecates th 'approaching Harms; 
In vain the Oak (so often storm'd) 
Rely'd upon that native Force, 
By which already was perform'd 
So much of his appointed Course, 
As made him, fearless of Decay, 

Wait but the accomplish'd Time 20 

Of his long-wish'd and useful Prime, 
To be remov'd, with Honor, to the Sea. 
The strait and ornamental Fiiie 
Did in the like Ambition joyn. 
And thought his Fame shou'd ever last, 
When in some Royal Ship he stood the planted Mast; 
And shou'd again his Length of Timber rear. 
And new engrafted Branches wear 
Of fibrous Cordage and impending Shrouds, 
Still trimm'd with human Care, and water'd by the 

Clouds. 30 

But oh, you Trees! who solitary stood; 
- Or you, whose Numbers form'd a Wood; 
You, who on Mountains chose to rise, 
And drew them nearer to the Skies; 
Or you, whom Valleys late did hold 
In flexible and lighter Mould ; 



254 The Poems of Anne 

You num'rous Brethren of the Leafy Kind, 

To whatsoever Use design'd, 

Now, vain you found it to contend 
With not, alas! one Element; your Friend 40 

Your Mother Earth, thro' long preceding Rains, 

(Which undermining sink below) 
No more her wonted Strength retains; 
Nor you so fix'd within her Bosom grow. 
That for your sakes she can resolve to bear 

These furious Shocks of hurrying Air; 
But finding All your Ruin did conspire, 
She soon her beauteous Progeny resign'd 
To this destructive, this imperious Wind, 
That check'd your nobler Aims, and gives you to 'the 

Fire. 50 

Thus! have thy Cedars, Lihanus, been struck 

As the lythe Oziers twisted round; 
Thus! Cadez, has thy Wilderness been shook. 
When the appalling, and tremendous Sound 

Of rattl'ing Tempests o'er you broke, 

And made your stubborn Glories bow, 
When in such Whirlwinds the Almighty spoke. 
Warning Judea then, as our Britannia now. 

Yet these were the remoter Harms, 
Foreign the Care, and distant the Alarms: 60 

Whilst but sheltring Trees alone, 

Master'd soon, and soon o'erthrown. 

Felt those Gusts, which since prevail, 

And loftier Palaces assail ; 

Whose shaken Turrets now give way. 
With vain Inscriptions, which the Freeze has borne 
Through Ages past, t'extol and to adorn, 

And to our latter Times convey ; 



Countess of Winchilsea 255 

Who did the Structures deep Foundation lay,. 

Forcing his Praise upon the gazing Croud, 70 

And, whilst he moulders in a scanty Shroud, 
Telling both Earth and Skies, he when alive was proud. 

Now down at once comes the superfluous Load, 
The costly Fret- work with it yields. 

Whose imitated Fruits and Flow'rs are strew'd. 
Like those of real Growth o'er the Autumnal Fields. 
The present Owner lifts his Eyes, 

And the swift Change with sad Affrightment spies: 

The Cieling gone, that late the Roof conceal'd; 

The Roof untyl'd, thro' which the Heav'ns reveal'd, 80 
Exposes now his Head, when all Defence has fail'd. 

What alas, is to be done! 
Those, who in Cities wou'd from Dangers run. 
Do but encreasing Dangers meet. 
And Death, in various shapes, attending in the Street; 
While some, too tardy in their Flight, 
O'ertaken by a worse Mischance, 
Their upward Parts do scarce advance. 
When on their following Limbs th' extending Ruins light. 
One half's interr'd, the other yet survives, 90 

And for Release with fainting Vigour strives; 
Implores the Aid of absent Friends in vain ; 
With fault'ring Speech, and dying Wishes calls 
Those, whom perhaps, their own Domestick Walls 
By parallel Distress, or swifter Death retains. 

O Wells! thy Bishop's Mansion we lament, 
So tragical the Fall, so dire th'Event! 
But let no daring Thought presume 
To point a Cause for that oppressive Doom. 
Yet strictly pious Ken! had'st Thou been there, 100 
This Fate, we think, had not become thy share; 



256 The Poems of Anne 

Nor had that awful Fabrick bow'd, 
Sliding from its loosen'd Bands; 
Nor yielding Timbers been allow'd 
To crush thy ever-lifted Hands, 
Or interrupt thy Pray'r. 
Those Orizons, that nightly Watches keep, 
Had call'd thee from thy Bed, or there secur'd thy Sleep. 
Whilst you, bold Winds and Storms! his Word obey'd, 
Whilst you his Scourge the Great Jehova made, 110 
And into ruin'd Heaps our Edifices laid. 

You South and West the Tragedy began. 
As, with disorder'd haste, you o'er the Surface ran ; 
Forgetting, that you were design'd 
(Chiefly thou Zephyrus, thou softest Wind !) 
Only our Heats, when sultry, to allay. 
And chase the od'rous Gums by your dispersing Play. 
Now, by new Orders and Decrees, 
For our Chastisement issu'd forth, 
You on his Confines the alarmed North 120 

With equal Fury sees. 
And summons swiftly to his Aid 
Eurus, his Confederate made, 
His eager Second in th 'opposing Fight, 
That even the Winds may keep the Balance right, 
Nor yield increase of Sway to arbitrary Might. 
Meeting now, they all contend, 
Those assail, while These defend; 
Fierce and turbulent the War, 

And in the loud tumultuous Jar 130 

Winds their own Fifes, and Clarions are. 
Each Cavity, which Art or Nature leaves. 
Their Inspiration hastily receives; 

Whence, from their various Forms and Size, 
As various Symphonies arise. 



Countess op Winchilsea 257 

Their Trumpet ev'ry hollow Tube is made, 
And, when more solid Bodies they invade 

Enrag'd, they can no farther come, 
The beaten Flatt, whilst it repels the Noise, 
Resembles but with more outrageous Voice 140 

The Soldier's threatning Drum: 
And when they compass thus our World around, 
When they our Rocks and Moimtains rend. 
When they our Sacred Piles to their Foundations send. 
No wonder if our ecchoing Caves rebound; 
No wonder if our list'ning Sense they wound, 
When arm'd with so much Force, and usher'd with such 
Sound. 

Nor scarce, amidst the Terrors of that Night, 
When you, fierce Winds, such Desolations wrought, 
When you from out his Stores the Great Commander 
brought, 150 

Cou'd the most Righteous stand upright; 
Scarcely the Holiest Man performs 
The Service, that becomes it best. 
By ardent Vows, or solemn Pray'rs addrest; 
Nor finds the Calm, so usual to his Breast, 
Full Proof against such Storms. 
How shou'd the Guilty then be found, 
The Men in Wine, or looser Pleasures drown'd. 
To fix a stedfast Hope, or to maintain their Ground! 

When at his Glass the late Companion feels, 160 

That Giddy, like himself, the tott'ring Mansion reels! 
The Miser, who with many a Chest 
His gloomy Tenement opprest. 
Now fears the over-burthen'd Floor, 
And trembles for his Life, but for his Treasure more. 
What shall he do, or to what Pow'rs apply? 



258 The Poems of Anne 

To those, which threaten from on High, 
By him ne'er call'd upon before, 
Who also will suggest th' impossible Restore? 

No ; Mammon, to thy Laws he will be true, 170 

And, rather than his Wealth, will bid the World adieu. 
The Rafters sink, and bury'd with his Coin 
That Fate does with his living Thoughts combine; 
For still his Heart's inclos'd within a Golden Mine. 

Contention with its angry Brawls 
By Storms o'er-clamour'd, shrinks and falls; 
Nor WHIG, nor TORY now the rash Contender calls. 
Those, who but Vanity allow'd. 
Nor thought, it reach'd the Name of Sin, 
To be of their Perfections proud, 180 

Too much adorn'd without, or too much rais'd within. 
Now find, that even the lightest Things, 
As the minuter parts of Air, 
When Number to their Weight addition brings, 
Can, like the small, but numerous Insects Stings, 
Can, like th' assembl'd Winds, urge Ruin and Despair. 

Thus You've obey'd, you Winds, that must fulfill 

The Great disposer's Righteous Will: 
Thus did your Breath a strict Enquiry make. 
Thus did you our most secret Sins awake, 190 

And thus chastis'd their 111. 

Whilst vainly Those, of a rapacious Mind, 

Fields to other Fields had laid, 
By Force, or by injurious Bargains join'd. 
With Fences for their Guard impenetrable made ; 

The juster Tempest mocks the wrong, 

And sweeps, in its directed Flight, 

Th' Inclosures of another's Right, 



Countess of Winchilsea 259 

Driving at once the Bounds, and licens'd Herds along. 
The Earth agen one general Scene appears ; 200 

No regular distinction now, 
Betwixt the Grounds for Pasture, or the Plough, 

The Face of Nature wears. 

Free as the Men, who wild Confusion love, 

And lawless Liberty approve. 

Their Fellow-Brutes pursue their way, 
To their own Loss, and disadvantage stray. 
As wretched in their Choice, as unadvis'd as They. 
The tim'rous Deer, whilst he forsakes the Park, 
And wanders on, in the misguiding Dark, 210 

Believes, a Foe from ev'ry unknown Bush 

Will on his trembling Body rush, 
Taking the Winds, that vary in their Notes, 
For hot pursuing Hounds with deeply bellowing Throats. 
Th' awaken'd Birds, shook from their nightly Seats, 

Their unavailing Pinions ply, 

Repuls'd, as they attempt to fly 
In hopes they might attain to more secure Retreats. 
But, Where ye wilder'd Fowls wou'd You repair? 

When this your happy Portion given, 220 

Your upward Lot, your Firmament of Heaven, 
Your unentail'd, your undivided Air, 
Where no Proprietor was ever known, 
Where no litigious Suits have ever grown. 
Whilst none from Star to Star cou'd call the space his Own ; 
When this no more your middle Flights can bear. 
But some rough Blast too far above conveighs. 
Or to unquitted Earth confines your weak Essays. 
Nor You, nor wiser Man cou'd find Repose, 

Nor cou'd our Industry produce 230 

Expedients of the smallest Use, 



260 The Poems of Anne 

To ward our greater Cares, or mitigate your Woes. 
Ye Clouds! that pity'd our Distress, 

And by your pacifying Showers 
(The soft and usual methods of Success) 
Kindly assay'd to make this Tempest less; 
Vainly your Aid was now alas! employ' d, 
In vain you wept o'er those destructive Hours, 
In which the Winds full Tyranny enjoy' d, 

Nor wou'd allow you to prevail, 240 

But drove your scorn'd, and scatter'd Tears to wail 
The Land that lay destroy'd. 

Whilst You obey'd, you Winds ! that must fulfill 

The just Disposer's Righteous Will ; 
Whilst not the Earth alone, you disarray. 
But to more ruin'd Seas wing'd your impetuous Way. 

Which to foreshew, the still portentous Sun 
Beamless, and pale of late, his Race begun, 
Quenching the Rays, he had no Joy to keep, 
In the obscure, and sadly threaten'd Deep. 250 

Farther than we, that Eye of Heaven discerns, 
And nearer plac'd to our malignant Stars, 
Our brooding Tempests, and approaching Wars 
Anticipating learns. 

W^hen now, too soon the dark Event 

Shews what that faded Planet meant ; 
Whilst more the liquid Empire undergoes, 
More she resigns of her entrusted Stores, 
The Wealth, the Strength, the Pride of diff'rent Shores 
In one Devoted, one Recorded Night, 260 

Than Years had known destroy'd by generous Fight, 
Or Privateering Foes. 

All Rules of Conduct laid aside. 

No more the baffl'd Pilot steers, 



Countess of Winchilsea 261 

Or knows an Art, when it each moment veers, 
To vary with the Winds, or stem th'unusual Tide. 
Dispers'd and loose, the shatter' d Vessels stray, 

Some perish within sight of Shore, 
Some, happier thought, obtain a wider Sea, 
But never to return, or cast an Anchor more ! 270 

Some on the Norther^i Coasts are thrown, 
And by congealing Surges compass'd round, 
To fixt and certain Ruin bound. 
Immoveable are grown: 
The fatal Goodwin swallows All that come 
Within the Limits of that dangerous Sand, 
Amphibious in its kind, nor Sea nor Land; 
Yet kin to both, a false and faithless Strand, 
Known only to our Cost for a devouring Tomb. 

Nor seemed the Hurricane content, 280 

Whilst only Ships were wreckt, and Tackle rent; 

The Sailors too must fall a Prey, 
Those that Command, with those that did Obey; 
The best Supporters of thy pompous Stile, 
Thou far Renown'd, thou pow'rful British Isle! 
Foremost in Naval Strength, and Sov'reign of the Sea! 
These from thy Aid that wrathful Night divides, 
Plung'd in those Waves, o'er which this Title rides. 
What art Thou, envy'd Greatness, at the best, 

In thy deluding Splendors drest? 290 

What are thy glorious Titles, and thy Forms ? 
Which cannot give Security, or Rest 
To favour'd Men, or Kingdoms that contest 
With Popular Assaults, or Providential Storms! 

Whilst on th'Omnipotent our Fate depends. 
And They are only safe, whom He alone defends. 
Then let to Heaven our general Praise be sent. 
Which did our farther Loss, our total Wreck prevent. 



262 The Poems of Anne 

And as our Aspirations do ascend, 

Let every Thing be summon'd to attend; 300 

And let the Poet after God's own Heart 
Direct our Skill in that sublimer part, 
And our weak Numbers mend! 

THE HYMN 

To the Almighty on his radiant Throne, 

Let endless Hallelujas rise! 
Praise Him, ye wondrous Heights to us unknown. 
Praise Him, ye Heavens unreach'd by mortal Eyes, 
Praise Him, in your degree, ye sublunary Skies! 

Praise Him, you Angels that before him bow, 

You Creatures of Celestial frame. 
Our Guests of old, our wakeful Guardians now. 
Praise Him, and with like Zeal our Hearts enflame. 
Transporting then our Praise to Seats from whence you 
came ! 

Praise Him, thou Sun in thy Meridian Force; 

Exalt Him, all ye Stars and Light! 
Praise Him, thou Moon in thy revolving Course, 
Praise Him, thou gentler Guide of silent Night, 
Which do's to solemn Praise, and serious Thoughts invite. 

Praise Him, ye humid Vapours, which remain 

Unfrozen by the sharper Air; 
Praise Him, as you return in Show'rs again. 
To bless the Earth and make her Pastures fair: 
Praise Him, ye climbing Fires, the Emblems of our 
Pray'r. 

Praise Him, ye Waters petrify'd above. 
Ye shredded Clouds that fall in Snow, 



Countess of Winchilsea 263 

Praise Him, for that you so divided niove; 
Ye Hailstones, that you do no larger grow, 
Nor, in one solid Mass, oppress the World below. 

Praise Him, ye soaring Fowls, still as you fly. 

And on gay Plumes your Bodies raise; 
You Insects, which in dark Recesses lie, 
Altho' th' extremest Distances you try, 
Be reconcil'd in This, to offer mutual Praise. 

Praise Him, thou Earth, with thy unbounded Store; 

Ye Depths which to the Center tend: 
Praise Him ye Beasts which in the Forests roar; 
Praise Him ye Serpents, tho' you downwards bend, 
Who made your bruised Head our Ladder to ascend. 

Praise Him, ye Men whom youthful Vigour warms; 

Ye Children, hast'ning to your Prime; 
Praise Him, ye Virgins of unsullied Charms, 
With beauteous Lips becoming sacred Rhime: 
You Aged, give Him Praise for your encrease of Time. 

Praise Him, ye Monarchs in supreme Command, 

By Anthems, like the Hebrew Kings; 
Then with enlarged Zeal throughout the Land 
Reform the Numbers, and reclaim the Strings, 
Converting to His Praise, the most Harmonious Things. 

Ye Senators presiding by our Choice, 

And You Hereditary Peers! 
Praise Him by Union, both in Heart and Voice; 
Praise Him, who your agreeing Council steers, 
Producing sweeter Sounds than the according Spheres. 

Praise Him, ye native Altars of the Earth! 
Ye Mountains of stupendious size! 



264 The Poems of Anne 

Praise Him, ye Trees and Fruits which there have birth, 
Praise Him, ye Flames that from their Bowels rise, 
All fitted for the use of grateful Sacrifice. 

He spake the Word; and from the Chaos rose 

The Forms and Species of each Kind: 
He spake the Word, which did their Law compose, 
And all, with never ceasing Order join'd. 
Till ruffl'd for our Sins by his chastising Wind. 

But now, you Storms, that have your Fury spent, 

As you his Dictates did obey. 
Let now your loud and threatning Notes relent, 
Tune all your Murmurs to a softer Key, 
And bless that Gracious Hand, that did your Progress stay. 

From my contemn'd Retreat, obscure and low. 
As Grots from whence the Winds disperse, 
May this His Praise as far extended flow ; 
And if that future Times shall read my Verse, 
Tho' worthless in it self, let them his Praise rehearse. 

TO THE ECCHO 

In a clear night upon Astrop ivalks 

Say lovely Nymph, where dost thou dwell? 

Where is that secret Sylvan seat. 

That melancholy, sweet retreat. 

From whence, thou doest these notes repell, 

And moving Syllables repeat? 

Oh lovely Nymph, our joys to swell. 

Thy hollow, leafy mantion tell. 

Or if thou only charm'st the ear, 

And never wilt to sight, appear. 

But doest alone in voyce excell, 10 

Still with itt, fix us here. 



Countess of Winchilsea 265 

Where Cynthia, lends her gentle light, 

Whilst the appeas'd, expanded air, 

A passage for thee, does prepare. 

And Strephon's tunefnll voyce, invite, 

Thine, a soft part with him to bear. 

Oh pleasure! when thou'dst take a flight. 

Beyond thy comon, mortal height, 

When to thy sphere above, thou'dst presse, 

And men, like Angels, thou woud'st blesse, 20 

Thy season, be like this, fair Night, 

And Harmony thy dresse. 

THE BIRD 

Kind bird, thy praises I design. 

Thy praises, like thy plumes, shou'd shine; 

Thy praises, shou'd thy life outlive, 

Cou'd I the fame I wish thee, give. 

Thou, my domestick musick art. 

And dearest trifle of my heart. 

Soft, in thy notes, and in thy dresse. 

Softer, then numbers can expresse. 

Softer then love, softer then light 

When just escaping from the night,^ 10 

When first she rises, unaray'd, 

And steals a passage through the shade. 

Softer then air, or flying clouds 

Which Phoebus glory, thinly shrouds. 

Gay as the spring, gay as the flowers. 

When lightly strew'd with pearly showers, 

Ne'r to the woods shalt thou return. 

Nor thy wild freedom, shalt thou mourn, 

Thou, to my bosome shalt repair. 

And find a safer shelter there; 20 

There shalt thou watch, and shou'd I sleep, 



26G The Poems of Anne 

My heart, thy charge, securely keep. 

Love, who a stranger is to me. 

Must by thy wings be kin to thee; 

So painted o're, so seeming fair. 

So soft, his first adresses are. 

Thy guard, he n'er can passe, unseen; 

Thou, surely thou hast often been. 

Whilst yett a wand'rer in the grove, 

A false accomplice, with this Love ; 30 

Li the same shade, hast thou not sate. 

And seen him work some wretches fate? 

Hast thou not sooth'd him in the wrong; 

And grac'd the mischeif, with a song, 

Tuning thy loud conspiring voyce, 

O're falling lovers, to rejoyce? 

If so, thy wicked faults redeem. 

In league with me, no truce with him 

Do thou admitt, but warn my heart, 

And all his sly designs impart, 40 

Least to that breast, by craft he gett. 

Which has defy'd and brav'd him yett. 

THE TREE 

Fair Tree! for thy delightful Shade 

'Tis just that some Return be made; 

Sure, some Return is due from me 

To thy cool Shadows, and to thee. 

When thou to Birds do'st Shelter give, 

Thou Musick do'st from them receive ; 

If Travellers beneath thee stay, 

Till Storms have worn themselves away. 

That Time in praising thee they spend, 

And thy protecting Pow'r commend: 10 



Countess of Winchilsea 267 

The Shepherd here, from Scorching freed, 

Tunes to thy dancing Leaves his Reed; 

Whilst his lov'd Nymph, in Thanks, bestows 

Her flow'ry Chaplets on thy Boughs. 

Shall I then only Silent be. 

And no Return be made by me? 

No; let this Wish upon thee wait, 

And still to flourish be thy Fate, 

To future Ages may'st thou stand 

Untouch'd by the rash Workman's hand; 20 

'Till that large Stock of Sap is spent. 

Which gives thy Summer's Ornament; 

'Till the fierce Winds, that vainly strive 

To shock thy Greatness whilst alive, 

Shall on thy lifeless Hour attend, ,; 

Prevent the Axe, and grace thy End ; 

Their scatter' d Strength together call. 

And to the Clouds proclaim thy Fall ; 

Who then their Ev'ning-Dews may spare. 

When thou no longer art their Care; 30 

But shalt, like ancient Heroes, burn, 

And some bright Hearth be made thy Urn. 

TO THE NIGHTINGALE 

Exert thy Voice, sweet Harbinger of Spring! 

This Moment is thy Time to sing. 

This Moment I attend to Praise, 
And set my Numbers to thy Layes. 

Free as thine shall be my Song ; 

As thy Musick, short, or long. 
Poets, wild as thee, were born. 

Pleasing best when unconfin'd, 

When to Please is least design'd, 
Soothinof but their Cares to rest; 10 



268 The Poems of Anne 

Cares do still their Thoughts molest, 

And still th' unhappy Poet's Breast, 
Like thine, when best he sings, is plac'd against a Thorn. 
She begins, Let all be still! 

Muse, thy Promise now fulfill! 
Sweet, oh! sweet, still sweeter yet 
Can thy Words such Accents fit, 
Canst thou Syllables refine. 
Melt a Sense that shall retain 

Still some Spirit of the Brain, 20 

Till with Sounds liRe these it join. 

'Twill not be! then change thy Note; 

Let division shake thy Throat. 
Hark! Division now she tries; 
Yet as far the Muse outflies. 

Cease then, prithee, cease thy Tune; 

Trifler, wilt thou sing till June? 
Till thy Bus'ness all lies waste, 
And the Time of Building's past! 

Thus we Poets that have Speech, 30 

Unlike what thy Forests teach, 

If a fluent Vein be shown 

That's transcendent to our own, 
ZJriticize, reform, or preach. 
Or censure what we cannot reach. 

A NOCTURNAL REVERIE 

In such a Night, when every louder Wind 

Is to its distant Cavern safe confin'd; 

And only gentle Zephyr fans his Wings, 

And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings ; 

Or from some Tree, fam'd for the OivVs delight, 

She, hollowing clear, directs the Wand'ror right : 

In such a Night, when passing Clouds give place. 



Countess op Winchilsea 269 

Or thinly vail the Heav'ns mysterious Face ; 

When in some River, overhung with Green, 

The waving Moon and trembling Leaves are seen; 10 

When freshen'd Grass now bears it self upright, 

And makes cool Banks to pleasing Rest invite, 

Whence springs the Woodbind, and the Bramhle-^ose, 

And where the sleepy Cowslip shelter'd grows; 

Whilst now a paler Hue the Foxglove takes. 

Yet checquers still with Red the dusky brakes 

When scatter'd Glow-worms, but in Twilight fine. 

Shew trivial Beauties watch their Hour to shine; 

Whilst Salish''ry stands the Test of every Light, 

In perfect Charms, and perfect Virtue bright: 20 

When Odours, which declin'd repelling Day, 

Thro' temp'rate Air uninterrupted stray ; 

When darken'd Groves their softest Shadows wear, 

And falling Waters we distinctly hear; 

When thro' the Gloom more venerable shows 

Some ancient Fabrick, awful in Repose, 

While Sunburnt Hills their swarthy Looks conceal, 

And swelling Haycocks thicken up the Vale: 

When the loos'd Horse now, as his Pasture leads, 

Comes slowly grazing thro' th' adjoining Meads, 30 

Whose stealing Pace, and lengthen' d Shade we fear, 

Till torn up Forage in his Teeth we hear: 

When nibbling Sheep at large pursue their Food, 

And unmolested Kine rechew the Cud; 

When Curlews cry beneath the Village-walls, 

And to her straggling Brood the Partridge calls; 

Their shortliv'd Jubilee the Creatures keep, 

Which but endures, whilst Tjvant-Man do's sleep; 

When a sedate Content the Spirit feels. 

And no fierce Light disturb, whilst it reveals; 40 

But silent Musings urge the Mind to seek 



270 The Poems of Anne 

Something, too high for Syllables to speak ; 

Till the free Soul to a compos'dness charm'd, 

Finding the Elements of Rage disarm'd, 

O'er all below a solemn Quiet grown, 

Joys in th' inferiour World, and thinks it like her Own: 

In such a Night let Me abroad remain. 

Till Morning breaks, and All's confus'd again ; 

Our Cares, our Toils, our Clamours are renew'd, 

Or Pleasures, seldom reach'd, again pursu'd. 50 



TO DEATH' 

O King of Terrors, whose unbounded Sway 

All that have Life, must certainly Obey; 

The King, the Priest, the Prophet, all are Thine, 

Nor wou'd ev'n God (in Flesh) thy Stroke decline. 

My Name is on thy Roll, and sure I must 

Encrease thy gloomy Kingdom in the Dust. 

My soul at this no Apprehension feels. 

But trembles at thy Swords, thy Racks, thy Wheels; 

Thy scorching Fevers, which distract the Sense, 

And snatch us raving, unprepar'd from hence; 

At thy contagious Darts, that wound the Heads 

Of weeping Friends, who wait at dying Beds. 

Spare these, and let thy Time be when it will; 

My Bus'ness is to Dye, and Thine to Kill. 

Gently thy fatal Sceptre on me lay, 

And take to thy cold Arms, insensibly, thy Prey. 

1 This poem was accidentally misplaced. It belongs with the group of religious 
poems beginning on p. 214. 



Countess of Winchilsea 271 

THE TRIVMPHS OF LOVE AND INNOCENCE 
A TRAGECOMEDY 

AN ADVERTISEMENT 

Having seen (out of the love of novelty) many Plays brought 
upon the stage, wh'^'' have been as indifferent as these two of 
mine, and not being able, longer then my own life, to protect either 
of them, from the same fate, of being expos'd, censm-ed, and con- 
demn'd, I prefix these few lines, which will accompany them 
as long as they are to have a being, to assiire all that shall peruse 
them, that a more terrible injury cannot be offer'd me, then to 
occasion, or permitt them ever to be represented. I have both 
private, as well as declar'd reasons for this, and did I not hope by 
my entreaty, to be secure of prevailing in this particular, I wou'd 
assure myself of itt, by a total suppression, of what I have suffer'd 
to be coppy'd, only for the entertainment of some particular per- 
sons; but since they are to passe (if they live till hereafter) only throo' 
the hands of Relations, and such as have professt some esteem for 
me, I will not disquiett myself, with any fears, or distrusts of the 
honovu- or generosity of them, who can in nothing so much oblige 
me, as in being strict (against any importunitys whatsoever) to the 
observation of this earnest request of ... . Ardelia 

THE NAMES AND CARACTERS OF THE PERSONS 

THE MEN 

Aubusson, Great Master of Rhodes. 

Lauredan, General of Cyprus for the reigning queen Catherine 

Cornare, and Ambassadour from the State of Venice. 
Blanfort, A yong French nobleman, nephew to Aubusson, in 

love with the true Queen of Cyprus, formerly contracted to 

Marina. 
Rivalto, ) 

Vilhnarin, r Knights of Rhodes, and factious against Aubusson. 
Linnian, ) 

Riccio, A Cyprian Lord, Counsellour to the exil'd queen. 
Capriccio, A merry drinking Captain of the Guards, something 

exceptions. 
Monthaleon, An honest knight of Rhodes, friend to Aubusson, and 

Blanfort. 



272 The Poems of Anne 

THE WOMEX 

Queen of Cypress, Expell'd and come to Khodes for refuge. 
Marina, Contracted to and forsaken by Blanfort, now disgnis'd, 

and under the name of Carino, serves as page to Aubusson. 
Clarilla, Favorite, and confident to the Queen. 

Guards and Attendants on the Great Master, and on the Generall, 
and Women and Attendants on the Queen. 

The General Scene is the Great Masters Pallace in the Isle of 
Khodes. 

THE FIRST ACT: THE FIRST SCENE 

The Queen's Apartment 

At the drawing up of the Curtain, a sound of Hauthois, Trum- 
petts, and other naval musick is heard as from the Sea 

Enter Riccio and Clarilla. 

Bic. Clarilla, where's the Queen? 
Knows she the news, that Lauredan is landing ? 

Clar. Who is alive in Rhodes, and does not know itt? 
So loud his trumpetts eccho round the Shoar, 
And usher in the pomp, with which he sails; 
The sound, to all that love the Queen, is hatefull. 
Since to his arm alone, she owes her mine. 
Who fix'd the bold Vsurper on her throne, 
And now maintains his Widdowe in that wrong. 
The proud Cornara, whom he serves with passion. 10 

Ric. Nay! more Clarilla, all his businesse here 
Is to remove our Queen, from this retreat. 
And at the best, confine her close for ever. 

Clar. He cant be cruel sure to that degree, 
Fame gives itt out, he has some noble thoughts, 
And pitty too (as I have been inform 'd) 
For our great Mistresse, in her change of fortune; 
Which cannot, sure, consist with such harsh usage. 

Hie. Compassion, oh! 'tis deaf, when intrest moves. 



Countess op Winchilsea 273 

Did itt not plead, d'you think, with all itts arts 20 

To Agamemnon, for his Daughter's life ? 

Did itt not tell him, she was fair, and Yong, 

Guiltlesse, as Nymphs that haunt the fountains side 

Far from th' infected air of Towns, and Courts? 

Did not soft pitty, whisper to his soul 

That 'twas himself, that he must wound in her, 

And the dear mother's part, which more he pris'd? 

Yet, ouer all these tender bounds he passt 

And sees her to the Temple brought, at last. 

The People groan, and he himself appears 30 

Like a full cloud, just breaking into tears. 

The Priest too wept, but int'rest had decreed 

Int'rest the god of all, that she shou'd bleed; 

For int'rest, now she's on the altar laid, 

And but a pow'r devine cou'd save the maid. 

Clar. Good Riccio, speak no more such moving things; 
Our present ills, have made my heart so apt 
For sad impressions — 
That I can weep, at hearing but a fable. 
And tell me then, if pitty cannot do itt, 40 

What may be thought on, to preserve the Queen? 

Ric. We sail, indeed, amid'st a world of dangers, 
Some Ports we haue, but many winds against us. 
Venice,that bred Cornara in her bosome, 
Wou'd still maintain her, in the height she's grown to, 
And 'tis from them, the Genral's now commission'd 
To make the attempt I told you, on our freedom. 
Rivalto's Suttle, and the Master's foe. 
And link'd in that, with Villmarin and Linian, 
Who still oppose the interests of our Queen. 50 

These shou'd be soothed and flatter'd into freindship; 
But Blanfort's love, oh! thats our Southern gale. 
Which if improv'd, we shou'd not want a harbour. 



274 The Poems of Anne 

These things you may insinuate to the Queen, 
Who has no hopes, but in the help of freinds. 

Clar. Oh! name not freindship, 'tis a weak supporter; 
And in this base and most degenerat age, 
Fitt only to erect a Somer bower, 
And bear the curling top of some light vine; 
But if a torn, and tempest beaten oak, 60 

Falling, shou'd lean upon itts boasted aid, 
Twou'd faintly shrink from the stupendious weight, 
And leave itt to embrace the humble dust. 
Nor can she flatter, she, who is the Sun 
To which those earthy vapours shou'd ascend, 
Will n'ere decline her beams, to court the foggs. 
For Blanfort's love, she shuns itt with such care. 
That yett, 't has ne're been told her, but by blushes. 
But 'tis the Prince, 'tis Aubusson, the just 
That must protect us, to preserve that title. 70 

Ric. So may itt prove, and since the Queen is private 

I will return, and listen to the news. 

Do you attend her still, and chear her spiritts, 

Perhaps, our fears present our dangers double. 

There is no Hydra, like uncertain trouble. 

{Exeunt severally 

The Scene changes to a Room of State. 

Florish. 

Enter at one door Aubusson, Blaufort Cariuo, Monthaleou, Capric- 
cio, &c., at the other, Lauredan, Rivalto, Villmarin, Linnian, 
and Lauredan's traine. 

Auh. Brave Lauredan, the Isle of Rhodes salutes you. 
And hauing told you, in her warlike voyce 
Of drums and trumpetts, and the Canon's thunder 
That you are welcome to her crouded shoares. 
Does now by me, her father and her freind. 
In the soft sounds of peace, again confirm itt ; 



Countess of Winchilsea 275 

And from the State of Venice, what you bring, 
We stand prepar'd, with these our Knights to hear. 

Laur. Then, from that Citty, thus I'm bid to say, 
To Aubusson, the Prince of conq'uring Rhodes, 10 

The Christians Bullwork, and the Turks confusion. 
That much she seeks the freindship of that State 
Whose piety, and strictnesse to their vows. 
Can bring down Heav'n to blesse their brave attempts, 
And send their Fame, to be recorded there. 
All love she offers, and all kind accesse. 
Succours in war, and trade in fertile peace, 
With what shall farther be by you requir'd 
To knitt the bands, of this most wish'd for league. 

Aub. Proceed my lord, to tell us her demands, 20 

For, if they are as gentle, as these proffers, 
Beleive me, Rhodes and Venice, shall be twinns. 
So much her wisdom; and her love we valine. 

Laur. Oh! they are gentler far, and of no tryal. 
No charge, or weighty burthen to the Isle, 
No nice requests, that ask a long debate 
And keep the severed Councill in suspence; 
This is the whole, that you resign to me 
To be conducted, where they have decree'd 
The person of the refug'd Cyprian Queen. 30 

A confused inurm^ring of approbation arises among the faction, 
then Rivalto speaks. 

Riv. It is most fitt. 

Lin. We cannot buy it cheaper. 

Vil. He is no friend to Rhodes, that likes not this. 

Aub. My lord, you call'd her refug'd in you fr] speech, 
Sure you did ill to mix that sacred word 
With those, that urge to violate the trust. 
Indeed, she came into our arms, for safety. 
And stak'd her royal life, upon our truth. 



276 The Poems of Anne 

Here too, sli' has slept without her train of fears. 

Only because we said she might dismisse them 40 

And when she talk'd of seizing and confinement, 

We bid her think herself as free as air ; 

And shall we now, to that, convert our words. 

Making them lighter then the chafp itt plays with 

Oh no! my Lord, she is, she shall be free. 

Laur. She shall, and curs'd be he that wou'd opose itt, 
She shall be free, on me repose that trust. 

Aiib. 'Tis lodg'd in us, and when we give itt up, 
Our honour, at that moment we resign. 

And think my Lord, what we have done for honour, 50 

Who when th' Imperial Turk came proudly on. 
Follow' d by numbers, countlesse as the stars, 
T' exact a shamefull tribute worse then death. 
With handfulls, in that cause, repuls'd the Tyrant 
And struck him, in his Tent, with such dispair, 
As made his Soul, a sacrafice to peace. 
That long had trembl'd, underneath his fury. 
Oh! Lauredan, lett Venice still remember 
'Twas honour, made us stem that high wrought tide, 
And force an ebb on that prodigious Sea. 60 

And since 'tis in this cause as much engag'd. 
Tell 'em, that with like vigour wee' 11 maintain it. 

Laur. My Lord I've done, but cou'd me thinks have wisht, 
That ere you'd urg'd so fully your refusall. 
The reasons might have been at large discuss' d, 
On which the Senate built this fair request. 

[7b Aub 

Vil. The reasons, ought to have been heard, my Lord. 

Lin. We're all concern' d, and tis no private cause. 

Rivalt. 'Tis fitt, that Venice who bestows that Crown, 
Shou'd in her pow'r, haue all that are pretenders; 70 

We are not to decide whose right itt is. 



Countess of Winchilsea 277 

Blanf. Nor are you call'd Rivalto to that task, 
What onr Great Master has return' d in answer, 
Will please the good, the gen'rous, and the just, 
And I so fully joyn in that decree. 
That this, and life shall leave me e're 'tis chang'd. 

[^Laying his hand on his sword 

Laiir. So yong! so handsome! and so much concern'd? 
It strikes me deeper then my last dessign. 
For sure in that, ther's something more then honour. 

Aiib. Blanfort, as neerest me in blood and duty, {Aside. 80 
I first command you silence, and respect; 
Next, know Rivalto, Vilmarin, and Linian, 
That you shall thrive no better, in this strife, 
Then when ye poorly from the Town retir'd. 
And drew your troops from off the Citty's guard, 
Because your clamorous councill to resign itt 
Was over rul'd, by all the freinds to honour. 
That, I forgave, but will not still be cross'd. 
Nor yeild my pow'r, and place, to bold intruders, 
Capriccio, see your guards perform their duty, 90 

And silence all that dare to interrupt us. 

[Linian offers to speak, Rivalto speaks to him aside 

Riv. No more, 'tis not a time to urge him farther, 
Leave itt to me, to fell this soaring pride. 
When things are ripen'd, which I have in working. 

Aiib. Think not my Lord, because you hear dissension 
That 'tis my arbitrary will prevails 
But know, that ere your vessel loos'd from Venice, 
Fame, with her thousand tongues, had told your purpose. 
And 'twas the states, th' assembl'd states decree. 
That it shou'd instantly be thus rejected 100 

Least, that a secret, and obscure debate 



278 The Poems of Anne 



Might make itt thought, we were dispos'd to yeild, 

And only held our honour at a price 

Above, what your commission was to ofPer. 

Therefore my Lord, here end this vain request, 

Whilst thus again, I take you to my arms. 

[Embracing him. 

And to our love, repeat you are most welcome. 

Laur. To charm the person, whilst you blast his hopes, 
Is sure my Lord, particular to you. 

Yett grant me this att least, to see the Queen. 110 

In private but to see, and to discourse her. 
My last demand, I lix upon this point; 
Which if obtain' d, shall still my discontents, 
And make me think myself not unsuccesfull. 

Aub. If she consents my lord itt shall be so. 

There let itt rest. 

Whilst Khodes shall tryumph that within her walls 

She lodges such a Souldier as your self. 

Lead on before, and lett our trumpetts tell 

How much we glory in our warlike guest. 120 

[Exeunt Aub. ivith Jjnur. folloiv'd by all but 'Rivalio, tvho stays 
and lays hold on Carino, who seems to endeavour to get from 
him^ 
Eiv. Why, strive you to avoid me thus Marina, 
Am I become of late, so dreadfuU to you? 

Car. Oh! good Rivalto, lett the voyce be low 
That speaks a name, which I must own with blushes 
You only know, I am not what I seem, 
And when you wrought me to assume this shape, 
Upon your Order, solemnly you swore, 
Ne're to reveal, without my free consent. 
That itt conceal' d a poor, unhappy woman. 

Eiv. Nor have I, though your frequent scorns have urg'd 
itt 130 



Countess of Winohilsea 279 

Beyond the patience of all hearts, but mine. 
O! yett relent, fair, charming Maid relent. 
And pleasure, with her best supporter, wealth, 
Shall still be handmaids, to your matchlesse beauty. 

Car. Name 'em no more, to her that's lost to both, 
Wealth I abandon'd, when I left my father. 
And fled his house, a vagabond for love. 
And as for pleasure, oh ! Rivalto, know, 
Tis so confin'd, with all its sweet attractions. 
To the dear person, of my faithlesse Blanfort, 140 

That since he's false, tis not in Fortune's pow'r 
To tempt my soul, with the deluding proffer. 

Biv. Do all your joys, depend then on his truth. 

Car. Yes, were he mine, as holy vows oblige him, 
And lay unmindfull of the fleeting hours, 
Stretch'd at my feet, 'till Phoebus left the skye. 
Breathing out sighs, soft as the southern winds, 
And printing on my hands, a thousand kisses. 
Then, cou'd I tell my soul in full delight, 
That this was pleasure, fitt for the immortals. 150 

But oh! they're past, those eager joys are past, 
And all extreams, to their own mine haste. 

Hiv. No more! Marina, I will hear no more. 
By all the stars, that crosse my hopes, I will not. 
Why, shou'd you speak such fond, and moving things. 
And not for me, who know I best deserve them? 
Weigh but my services, against his youth. 
And when the beauty of his form persuades. 
Be just, and sett the dangers I have run 
To bring you here, from all your pow'rfull freinds 160 

Against that gaudy trifle of an hour. 

Car. Vrge not those dangers, which you fondly sought 
To gratify your own, and not my passion. 
Oh! had I known in Rome, your true dessign, 



280 The Poems of Anne 

Ne'ere had I listen'd to those fair pretences. 

Which drew me thence, to misery, and Rhodes. 

To see my Lord, doat on another face, 

Whilst not one feature here, he doth suspect 

To be the same he lov'd in poor Marina. 

Oh why Rivalto, why, would you deceive me, 170 

Why wou'd you work all this, why wou'd you love? 

B,iv. Why, wou'd you lett me know that you cou'd love 
And talk, above the rate of other women ? 
Why wou'd you rob me of a safe belief 
(The only guard against enticing beauty,) 
That all your sex, were foolish, vain, inconstant, 
Form'd of a rib, beneath the heart of man. 
The seat of noble, and exalted passions. 
And only made pertakers of his spleen. 

By which they laugh, and weep, and love, and hate, 180 
And steer the course of their uncertain souls, 
Why did you let me see, to my undoing. 
You was not thus, and charm me from my refuge ? 

Car. Think on your order and your vow Rivalto, 
Oh! think of that, and leave to urge me more, 
For what, you shou'd not take, if itt were granted 

Riv. When itt was made, war was my soverain passion, 
And Faith, I swore, to that my native cheif. 
But love prevailing ore my alter' d heart, 
Tells me to love, I only owe obedience; 190 

Therfore to you, the Pow'r that sways my soul, 
Upon my knees, again I will repeat them. 
And on this altar, white as Parian marble. 
Seal and confirm, th' irrevocable oath. 

[Offers to take her hand. 

Car. Oh! hear me first, what I intend to swear, 

[S/iee kneels. 
Tis now my turn, you've done itt once already. 

By all the hearts, that bleed without return, 



Countess op Winchilsea 281 

By all the Virgins, that in secret mourn, 

By all the tender and aluring things, 

Writt by soft pens, drawn from yong Cupids wings, 200 

By love himself, and by his mothers smiles. 

By ev'ry thing, that flatters and beguiles 

I swear to man, I n'ere will listen more — 

[She pauses and sighs. 

Unlesse to him, who broak all vows before. 

Miv. Ten thousand curses, tear him from the earth, 
And furies (such as prey upon my soul) 
Be still th' attendants of his anxious hours. 
And as for you, Marina — 
Cruel, ungratefull, obstinate Marina, 

Know, that I will not whine, and be despis'd, 210 

Nor dye dispairing, and yett blesse the cause. 

No, from this hour, itt is resolv'd, your charms 

Shall be embrac'd, or crush'd between these arms. 

[She goes out att one door, he going meets at the other door, Vil- 
marin and Linnian, and returns with themi] 

Vil. You're tame Rivalto, and have made us so; 
E-estrain'd the gen'rous heat, we shou'd have shewn, 
Before the Great, and strict observing General, 
Who may report itt, that he saw us bafS'd, 
Rated like boys, and slander'd with reproach 
Of base dessigns, to haue betray'd our Country. 

Riv. It was no slander that, we wou'd have done itt. 220 
And tho his pow'r o'recame, and made us yeild, 
Yett, were itt to be try'd again I'de tempt itt: 
And to the Turk, the Tartar, or the Fiend 
Give up my Country, Kinsmen, Laws, Religion, 
Rather then see them bow beneath the sway 
Of this adoar'd, insulting Aubusson. 

Lin. Why did you stop me then, when I was fir'd, 



282 The Poems of Anne 

And would have urg'd it, loudly to the croud, 
That his proceedings were tyrannical. 

Riv. Yes, to have bred their sport — 230 

When Captain puff, had stopt your tongue. 
And haled ye to confinement. 
No, no, revenge shall take a surer course, 
And when my thunder darts, with full comission. 
It shall not leave, to this aspiring Cedar, 
One lofty branch, to kisse the passe \_sic] clouds, 
Or tell the world that once itt ruFd the grove. 

Vil. If 'tis his life you mean, when thus you threat'n, 
Th' attempting that, perhaps may cost our own. 

Riv. It might indeed. — 240 

Think therefore, how t' would please ye, to destroy 
What more then life, he euer has esteem'd, 
And yett be safe, to see, and to rejoyce in 't. 

Lin. How itt wou'd please, is sure, not to be told; 
But he's so fenc'd about with fame, and freinds. 
With fortune, and the fawning of the world, 
That, to my eye, no part appears unguarded. 
Where we may fix a wound that wou'd be fatal. 

Riv. To shew you that, must be my part, my freinds, 
But this is not a time, or place for secrets. 250 

Only thus much, think how 'twill feed revenge. 
To see this Saint, this praying fighting Saint, 
This child of Fame, this cloud of holy Incence, 
Expos' d a profligate, and secret sinner, 
And like an orespent taper, stink, and vanish. 

Lin. Oh ! 'twill be rare, but tell me, is he thus ? 
For though I wish itt, I can scarce beleive itt. 

Riv. You shall beleive, and both be actors in itt, 
For shou'd I undertake the task alone. 

It might appeare, season' d with too much malice, 260 

For, since he from the Treasury, thrust me out. 



Countess of Winchilsea 283 

With publick scandal of abuses there, 
The world's too well acquainted how I hate him ; 
Anon we'll meet, at his, or at your lodgings, 
And all shall be reveal'd, till when, farewell. 

Lin. I long to hear itt, till that time we'll part. 

Vil. The lesse we're seen together, 'tis the better. 

[Exeunt. 
Enter Blanfort and Monthaleon. 

Blan. 'Tis true, the very mention of itt, shook me. 
And call'd up all the anger of my soul. 

Oh! think how Rhodes wou'd look if she were absent, 270 
How dull, how solitary, 'twoud appear, 
Did not her smiles, that tryumph o're her sorrows, 
Chear, and enliven, all the glad beholders. 

Month. My Lord, you speak as if we all were lovers, 
To you indeed, I grant it may be so. 

Blan. To me indeed, I do confesse Monthaleon 
The Sun n'ere rises, but with new delight 
I think 'twill bring again, some happy hour 
When I may gaze upon a brighter beauty. 
And folded in, by night's returning shades, 280 

I blesse 'em not, for silence, or for rest. 
But for the softer slumbers, that present 
The lovely Queen, in all her charms of wonder. 

Month. As honour'd with the title of you[r] freind, 
I shou'd be greiv'd to hear this mighty passion. 
Did I not hope, your most indulgent kinsman 
Wou'd both allow, and urge itt with the Queen; 
Who, may for shelter, from the present storm, 
Be glad to find a haven in your arms. 
And so, be more secure, of our protection. 290 

Blan. The proposition, warms me into raptures, 
But oh ! I wou'd not owe itt to her fears, 
My passion is too nice (tho' ne'r so famist) 



284 The Poems of Anne 

To feed on ought, but what's prepared by love; 

Therefore, I'll tell her first, how I adore her. 

And hope to be more blest in my endeavours, 

To find a time, when I may own my flame, 

Then heitherto, my fortune has affoarded, 

Since first I languish 't in this soft desire ; 

Till that is done, forbear to urge the Master. 300 

Month. May you succeed, and when you shall comand 
me, 
I'll do my part, pray loose no time my lord. 

Blan. Oh! fear me not, this moment I'll about itt. 

To urge me on to haste, as vain wou'd prove. 

As to give speed to time, or wings to love. 

[^Exeunt. 
Enter Riccio alone. 

Rice. To see and to discourse with her in private 
That's his request, and Aubusson allows itt 
Perhaps, the Queen will give itt her permission, 
If not deterr'd by my severer council. 

Which shall be urg'd most strongly, to prevent itt, 310 

Nor, will I stick to aggravate his speech. 
And put such harshnesse on his late demands 
As shall create a new displeasure for him. 
His hate to me, I hear he has profess'd, 
For that, I won my Queen, to fly from Cyprus, 
And not to trust the false and flatt'ring speeches. 
With which, he subtly strove to have detain'd her 
Wherefore, I must be ware of his revenge, 
And not allow, (tho' twou'd restore her Crown) 
That he shou'd 'ere conferr with her, in private, 320 

Least something might be urg'd, to work my mine. 
For yet the World has n'ere that Statesman known. 
Who for his Princes int'rest, wav'd his own. [Exit. 



Countess of Winchilsea 285 

ACT II SCENE I 

A Room of State 
Enter the Queen, talking with Riccio 

Queen. Is he so earnest then, to urge my fetters, 
And seems his barb'rous tryumph uncompleat, 
Unlesse, a Princesse grace itt, with her presence. 
The meanest wretch, to liberty is born, 
And 'tis a tyrant's work, to force 'em from it. 
The forest claims itt, for her savage traine; 
And chearfull birds, that feel itt in the air. 
Sing to that happy state, their softest carolls. 
And, wou'd he rob me, of this comon blessing? 
Oh! 'tis most cruel, most inhuman Riccio, 10 

Did none reply, and tell him 'twas inhuman? 
Or was he sooth'd with flatt'ry of the croud. 
Who still believe, the last heard tale, is best? 

nice. It prov'd so here indeed, the faction murmur' d. 
And call'd his bold request, a just demand; 
Cheifly, Rivalto seconded his speech, 
Till yong Lord Blanfort, like another Perseus 
In the fair cause of Innocence opresst, 
Rush'd on the Monster, with such gen'rous fury. 
As struck him into silent rage, and blushes, 20 

At which the haughty Gen'ral, sternly frown'd, 
And utter'd something, lost to me by distance. 

Queen. I much disire to know, by what comission, 
He undertakes, to be my publick Champion? 
On his great kinsman, I repose my fortunes. 
Nor will a weaker Atlas, 'ere support 'em. 
But Riccio, go, and give the Prince of Rhodes, 
That answer to his message, I deliver' d, 
For by your reasons, urg'd to me within, 
I am determin'd not to see the General. 30 



286 The Poems of Anne 

Rice. Your wise comands, I'll instantly obey, 
And soon return, to lett you know th' event. 

Queeji. Do so, I with impatience, shall expect itt. 

{Exit Rice. 
Will loue be caught, with gazing but an hour, 
If so, itt is not safe to look abroad. 
And women's eyes, by flatt'rers call'd so dreadfull, 
Will only prove of danger to themselves? 
I ne'er beheld this Lauredan, but once, 
And 'twas that fatal day, which crush'd my fortunes, 
Yett, is his form, still present to my sight, 40 

And such methinks, as I cou'd wish the mans 
Whom fate wou'd chuse, to give me back my Crown. 
And that he's brave, I know, by having lost itt. 
Nor did he seem to me so rudely feirce. 
So full of terrour, as they now describe him; 
His speech was gentle and his looks were sad, 
My sighs he eccho'd, and to stop my tears. 
Told me, if that I left not yett the shore, 
He wou'd retreive the fortune of the day, 
And give me back my Kingdom for a smile ; 50 

But Riccio sais, he loves my Throne's possessour. 
And now to fix her, urges my confinement. 
Else, all his wrongs, I cou'd methinks forgive, 
That hours soft treatment, pleads so strongly for him. 

[As she walks upon the stage, enter Blanfort, and talks to himself, 
whitest her face is from him?^ 

Blan. I've sent Capriccio, to engage her women, 
Carino too, that us'd to interrupt me 
As certainly as if he had design' d itt. 
Is playing out a game, which I begun. 
And cannot rob me of this happy moment. 

Queen. He has surpris'd me, which I still avoided, 60 

\^Aside seeing him. 



Countess of Winchilsea 287 

And once Clarilla, has forgot my orders, 
I must not lett him manage the discourse. 

If I may guesse, my Lord, what brings you here; 
To seek me out, before the publick hour, 
Tis to describe some splendid entertainment. 
Some Mask design' d, or musick, to devert 
The stranger, lately landed on your shoars. 

Blan. Had you but guest more right, or durst I speak itt. 
Then, Madam, wou'd the cause that brings me here. 
Appear as much above those comon trifles, 70 

As, you excell all others, in perfection. 

Queen. If 'tis my Lord so dang'rous to be told. 
Still to conceal itt, is the way to safety. 

Blan. Oh! rather say to death, and to dispair; 
So long, allready, have I trod the path, 
The solitary path of silent wishes, 
That rather than I still will wander there, 
I'll boldly leap the precipice before me, 
And perish in attempting to be free. 

See ! Madam, at your feet, to rise no more, [He kneels. 80 
If you deny his suit, the wretched'st slave 
That ere submitted to the pow'r of 

[Seeing Carino enter the Queen interrupts Blan. 

Queen. My Lord you are observ'd, but if to me. 
You've anything of moment to impart, 
Riccio, my wise, and faithfull Councellour, 
Will best receive, and bring itt to my knowledge. 
His coming, just to stop the word, I fear'd, 

[Aside as she walks from him. 

Was as I cou'd have wish'd itt. 

Blan. Who sins in love in love shall still be curs'd, 

[Aside. 



288 The Poems of Anne 

Else, sure this boy, cou'd n'er have crosst me now. 90 

How is itt, thou hast left the play, Carino, [To Car, 

I trusted thee to manage, in my absence. 

Car. Indeed, my Lord, since I have been in Rhodes, 
I'm seiz'd sometimes, with such a sudden passion. 
Such quick disorder' d beatings at my heart, 
As nothing but the air and motion cures. 
Forgive me, that when now I felt itt coming 
I left with Linnian, what you gave to me. 
And know, he better will perform the task. 

Blan. I do forgive thee, but I must be plain, 100 

And tell thee, I wou'd entertain the Queen 
Without a witnesse, therefore now retire. 
Before she turns, and may perhaps detain thee. 

Car. My Lord, I'll passe that way, and find her women. 
[Pointing to y^ door where the Queen stands. 

Blan. Thou't be observ'd. 

Car. I'll steal so gently by, 
I must retire, since he so plainly bids itt, [Aside. 

But I've one strattagem, Love make it prosper. 

[Seems to steal by y^ Queen, pulling a handerchief out of her 
pockett, a paper falls out in sight of the Queen. 

Queen, What paper's this, comes itt from you, Carino ? 
Blan. The trifler has undone my dear dessign. 110 

[Aside. 
And robb'd me, of this long sought hour of blisse. 
Car. Forgive me. Madam, that my carelesse action 

[Taking up the paper. 
Has made it fall, so neer your royal feet 

Queen. Is't not a song, confesse the truth Carino, 
Come I will see itt, or be much displeas'd 
Who waits? call in Phelinda, she shall sing itt. 

[Enter Phelinda.] 



Countess of Winchilsea 289 

THE SONG 

All your sighs, to air are turning, 

All your vows, will soon be lost, 
Quench'd those flames, which ne're left burning, 

'Till they had my freedom cost. 120 

Yett, remember whilst denying. 

How you strove to change my mind. 

Men are lost, but by complying. 
Women lou'd but 'till they're kind. 

Queen. Indeed 'tis well, extreamly well Carino. 
But this complaint, shou'd not be made by you. 

Enter Riccio 

Blan. More interruption, then 'tis vain to hope, \^Aside. 
And opertunity's as coy as beauty. 

Queen. With the great Master Riccio have you been? 

Blan. I find he comes with buisnesse, to the Queen 130 
And must retire 

But oh ! 'tis death to goe, 
And not the fortiine of my passion knowe . 

[Exit, followed by Carino. 

Rice. Great Aubusson, entreats your Royal presence. 
Who waits with some selected from the Council, 
For conference with you, on this great occasion. 
But Madam, for the reasons lately urg'd 
I wou'd advise, that still you shou'd resolve 
To stand unmov'd, in what I now have told you. 

Queen. Fear not my Lord, that I will see the Generall, 

[Going out. 
Who pleads for nothing, but my certain ruine. 140 

[Exeunt. 



290 The Poems of Anne 

The Scene changes to an outward room in the Queen's apartment, 
Blanfort passing through it with Carino 

Blan. Thou knowst I love, and cannot chide thee long ; 
But prithee, be more carefull for the future. 
Not to prevent, my conference with the Queen, 
Since I have told thee, that my life depends on 't. 

As they are going off Capriccio peeps out att the contrary door, 
and in a low voyce calls to Blanfort. 

Cap. My Lord, my Lord, may I not be releas't, 
I've done an hour's hard duty here, to serve you, 
Another such, wou'd wear me to a shaddow ? 
Blan. Well, take thy liberty, itt is enough. 

[Capriccio enters. 
Prythee, what is't has made thee so impatient, 
Their conversation, cou'd not tire thee, sure. 10 

Cap. Their prating did, I know not what you call itt. 
Blan. Well, their discourse, how did they entertain thee ? 
Cap. Why, alltogether, and ev'ry one, as much as she 
cou'd. 
Sing us a song, good Captain, says one. 

[Imitating their voyces. 

No, no, says another, tell us a story of the Turks ; 

Oh! but was you never in love, says a third. 

Yes, yes, says I, most inhumanely, 

And then I looked leeringly thus, upon my Lady Clarilla, 

That she might think itt was with her. 

But was you never drunk, says another, 20 

A notable pert wench, that, 

And came home to me, i' faith ; 

But says I, what in my face betrays itt? 

Nay, nothing says she. 

For a red nose, may be caught with standing 

Too long in the sun, and at that, 



Countess of Winchilsea 291 

They all sett up a laugh, tee, hee, ha, ha, a, 

Which lasted a full quarter of an hour, 

Without any interruption; but I was glad of that. 

For itt gave me time to study an answer. 30 

Car. And 'twas a good one, sure, lett's hear itt Captain? 

Cap. Why, I told em, so many tongues 
Was too much for one pair of ears, 
And that, if itt was not for somebody's sake. 
More then their own, they shou'd have talk'd 
To themselves for me. 

And that a man was a man, and a nose was a nose, 
Lett it look of what colour it wou'd. 

Blan. 'Twas smart indeed, 
But you did ill, to let them anger you, 40 

Twas that, which bred their mirth, 
No more of this, for our great Master comes. 

Enter as from Council ivith the Queen, Aubusson, Monthaleon, 
Vihnariu, Liniau, &c. 

Auh. Not, that I fear a war with the Venetians, 
Or to have bought their freindship, with dishonour, 
Did I endeavour to persuade the Queen 
To some complyance with the Gen' rails wishes; 
But in that Prince, there lives a soul so noble. 
So great, so gen'rous, and so truly valiant. 
That much it greives me, he shou'd part from Rhodes 
(Which boasts herself the nurse of all these vertues) 50 

With such a hard repulse as here he meets. 

Month. Indeed, my lord, I think t' have given him 
audience, 
Had been an act of prudence, in the Queen, 
Nor were the reasons Riccio urg'd against itt. 
Of weight enough, to give him satisfaction, 
And 'tis most sure, we've drawn a war upon us. 



292 The Poems of Anne 

Blan. Why, let itt come, we have no other buisnesse, 
Tis the foundation of our sacred order. 
And though 'twas cheifly meant against the Turks, 
Yett he that asks us, what we shou'd not grant, 60 

By that, becomes as much our Country's foe. 
The war, the war, I'm for the war, and scorn the proposition. 

Aub. Carino says not so, the mention of itt 
Has chang'd the colour, from his youthfull cheeks. 

Car. I hope I should not shun itt, out of fear. 

Aub. What then Carino, care to keep thy beauty ? 

[Laying his hand on her head and stroaking her face. 
Thou art indeed, too handsome for the field, 
And 'twas such features, cross'd great Pompey's fortune, 
Loosing him at Pharsalia, half the world. 
Which till that time, he held in spite of Csesar. 70 

Vil. So, so, soft and gentle, a lovely woman truly, 

[Aside to Lin. 
What fools were we, not to perceive it sooner. 

Blanf. Was then my lord, that battle lost by beauty 

Aub. O! yes itt was. 
For Juluis, marking how their troops came on, 
(Repelling with their beams, the sun's bright lustre, 
A golden army, and a feather'd war, 
Where ev'ry youth, to his complexion, match'd 
Colours, that best adorn'd and set it off) 
Call'd to his Vetterans, deform'd with scarrs, 80 

And bid 'em mark those faces, like their own; 
The stern command, as roughly was obey'd ; 
And now, assaulted in that seat of charms, 
Sooner they chose, to show the foe their backs, 
Then not before their Mistresse [s], appear 
With those sweet looks, that drew their parting tears. 
But we loose time. 
Follow me Blanfort, and Monthaleon too, 



Countess of Winchilsea 293 

That we may think, what terms will best become, 

And soften, what the Gen'rall must be told. 90 

Blan. Where shall I meet with thee again, Carino ? \^Aside. 

Ca7\ I'll waite you in the Grove, that fronts the Pallace, 
A Lute, and voyce, shall tell the place directly. 

Exeunt Aub: Month: Blan: Car. 

Lin. Lett's seek Rivalto, 
Since what we've mark'd our selves, 
I long for more discourse, upon the subject, [Exeunt. 

Enter Rivalto 

Riv. They're now engag'd, both in my dark contrivance; 
What I have next to doe; 
Will be to fleece 'em of the wealth I want: 
And then lett Fortune, as they're fools, befreind 'em. 100 
The rest of my dessigns, come bravely on. 
Already, has the General been treated 
Just as I meant he shou'd, when by forg'd letters 
I wrought on Riccio, to oppose his purpose, 
Which, may, provoke the State, he stands concern'd for 
And breed new troubles, to our haughty Master. 
For Blanfort too, something I must contrive, 
Which may, without my hand, cut ofp a Rival. 
And when I have expos'd Marina's fame, 
Making that use on't, my revenge exacts, 110 

I'll take her, humbl'd by the world's contempt, 
And flying to some far, some sweet retreat, 
Shake off these Vows, that manacle my Soul, 
And taste the joys, of liberty, and Love. 

Tis luxury, not honour, I desire, 

The real warmth, and not the painted fire ; 

To all my senses, their full pleasures give 

I care not how reproach'd or scorn'd I live. 



294 The Poems of Anne 

[Enter to him a Gentleman, with a letter^ 

Gent. Receive this, Sir, sent to you from the General, 
Who with itt, bids me tell you, on his honour, 120 

Noe harm shall reach you, if itt meets complyance. 
Since all his ends are fair, as time shall prove them, 
And that he chose this way, to shun suspition, 
Which might have risen from a private conference. 

Riv. I'm proud, in anything to be commanded 
By that great man, whom here we treat so slightly, 
Oh! we are bravely govern'd, but no more. 

Nay, then, if fates as [^sic] work, as fast as I [Reads aside. 

It must go well. 
Sir, tell the Gen'ral, what he here desires 130 

Falls in the compasse of my pow'r and will. 
And, when the proper hour of night, arrives, 
I'll wait upon him and secure his purpose 
This and all honour to him. [Exeunt. 

[The scene changes to a Grove, Carino alone.] 

Car. I am resolv'd, at last, to tempt my fortune, 
And by some tender policy, renew 
The dear remembrance of his once fond passion ; 
And if one spark of all that fire remains, 

I'll own myself, and try to urge itt higher, 

Or else in silence, and dispair, expire. 

[Enter one ivith a Lute. 
Oh ! here's the tunefull guide, I said, shou'd lead him, 
'Tis well you're come, pray sing the song I sent you, 
And, lett your musick soften, what's too harsh. 

A SONG 

Love, give thy traine of slaves away, 10 

To those whose Pleasure is their pride, 

To me, a gentle sigh convey. 

Unheard by all the world beside. 



Countess of Winchilsea 295 

A soft and secret falling tear, 

A tender thought but half expresst, 
Whilst am'rous looks, allay'd with fear, 

And glowing blushes, speak the rest. 

Oh! still to me, addresse such fires, 

As were beneath the Mirtles known, 
E're men had learn'd to feign desires, 20 

Or Women, proud, or false, were grown. 

For since to Courts, and Cittys come. 
Wealth, thy declining pow'r invades, 

And Vanity usurps thy room, 

Unknown to Innocence and shades. 

Car. See, itt has brought him \^Aside. 

Now you may retire. [^Exit musician. 

Enter Blanfort 

Bl(in. I come, Carino, drawn by thy sweet notes, 
Which through the grove, take their harmonious way. 
Whilst hov'ring Cupids hang upon the air, 30 

And catch the feathered sounds, to wing their arrows. 
But tell me, Youth, why doest thou seek retirement? 
The dark, and gloomy corners of the world, 
Were only made, for sad, and sighing lovers. 
Of these, thou art not one, I hope thou art not, 
For in that name, all misery's compris'd. [He sighs. 

Car. Alas! my lord, I greive to hear you sigh. 
For one, that does the precious breath dispise, 
And thinks her shrine, too glorious for such incense. 
But, did you never Love, my Lord, till now, 40 

Nor taste the pleasing part, of that sweet passion? 
Methinks, this place to confidence invites. 
And I cou'd here unfold my secrett thoughts. 
Were but your bosome, willing to receive them. 



296 The Poems of Anne 

And I might hope a sutable return ; 
Shall I begin my lord, or ask yonr pardon 
For having thus presum'd, to seek an honour, 
Which you may think me too unworthy of. 

Blan. No, I dare trust thee, 
And if thy tale be love, mine shall be soe; 50 

Do thou begin, and then I will unfold 
Who won my heart, before I saw the Queen; 
Here we'll lye down, and on this bank of flow'rs 
Discourse of love, and all itt's pleasing powers. 

[They sett down leaning agaynst y^ bank. 

Car. Keep off intruders. Fortune, for this moment. 
And all my life, shall be at thy dispose. [Aside. 

Blan. Why doest thou pause, if love 'ere toutch'd thy 
breast, 
Begin, and tell the time. 
With ev'ry circumstance, that bred thy passion? 

Car. The time, my lord, when I began to love, 60 

And yielded, to this Tyrant of my peace. 
Was that, which brought your last deceased Master 
With all his traine, of warlike knights to Rome, 
To clear himself, before the holy chair 
Of foul aspersions, cast upon his honour; 
Sure you was there my Lord ; I think you was. 
Do you remember nothing of that time? 

Blan. O ! yes I doe, and if that was the season, 
Ther's something, sure, of Sympathy betwixt us. 
Go on, and make me know as well the place. 70 

Car. The place, oh! 'twas most fitt for the occasion, 
Secret, and blooming, with the verdant spring; 
A Grove of mirtles, compass'd itt about. 
Which gave no more admittance to the Sun 
Then serv'd to chear the new appearing flowers, 
And tell the birds, itt was their time to sing 



Countess of Winchilsea 297 

A cristal spring, stole through the tufted grasse, 

Hasting, to reach a fountain, which itt fed. 

And murmur 'd still, when 'ere itt found a stop. 

[She pauses. 

Blan. As I shall do, if thou doest not proceed, 80 

What then Carino? 

Car. I must be vain, and now describe myself 
As he, then told me, I appear'd to him. [Aside. 

'Twas here, my lord, neer to this fountains side 
I saw the Maid, the soft, the charming Maid, 
That seem'd to give the sweetnesse to the place, 
And in her self, posesst all I've describ'd. 
The season's youth, and freshnesse of the flow'rs, 
The harmony of all the tunefull birds, 
And clearnesse of the Spring, on which she gaz'd. 90 

Blan. 'Tis wond'rous sweet. 
What doest thou call this Paradice of pleasure? 

Car. The Gardens, to the Duke of Mantua's Pallace. 

Blan. Ha! tis yett more strange, but hast'n to the rest, 
For night, I think begins to steal upon us 

Car. At my approach, she left her mossy seat, 
And from her arm, a scarf e, an azure scarf e 
Fell to the ground, which hastily I seiz'd on, 
And by that pledge, stopt her intended flight, 
She stood endeav'ring to regain the favour, 100 

And I, transported, gazing on her charms. 
Blessing the chance, but what I said I know not; 
Yett, sure if words are coppy'd from the heart, 
'Twas something, that expresst a sweet amaze, 
A mighty rapture, and a new born passion. 
My Lord, you seem as if you markt me not, 
A thoughtfull air, has disposess'd the smiles 
With which you bid me to repeat my passion. 

Blan. Tell me Carino, where thou hadst this story ? 

[Rising in disorder 



298 The Poems of Anne 

By my past love, and future hopes 'tis mine; 110 

The time, the place, all circumstances mine; 
The very scarfe, which thus thou hast describ'd. 
Is now within my Cabinett lockt up. 
Unfold this riddle, for I will be told 
If she, whom once I trusted with my soul. 
And all the infant follys, of my love 
Has lightly, made itt a discourse, for boys? 
[He coming up to her, looks earnestly on her, then turns aside 
and speaks. 

Oh! I have found a secret that distracts me, 
Dull as I was, 'ere this not to perceive itt. 

Car. I dare not speak, nor turn my eyes that way, [Aside. 
I know I've but too well explain'd myself, 121 

And have procur'd instead of what I hop'd for. 
Only his hate, which this last transport shews me. 

[Enter Capriccio throwing up his cap and singing. 
Capr. Tell not me of the killing. 
The wild, and the willing 
In faith, I shou'd chuse the much rather, 
I'll have one that shall come. 
At the beat of my Drum, 
Or the tossing up of my feather. 
Such Chios! such Cypresse! such daring, dancing, delicate 
liquors! 130 

Such ragouts! to quicken the pallate; such mirth! such 

madnesse ! 
Such firing! such hurra's! such healths! 

Blan. Hey, where's all this. 
Such hungry, thirsty raptures, I never heard of. 
Capr. No, nor never will, if you lye whining, 
And sighing, and singing, under an old rotten tree. 
Till the Caterpillars breed nests, in your dainty locks. 
But come away to your great Vnkle 



Countess of Winchilsea 299 

That sends for you, who makes to-night 

For the renown' d General, a most magnificent supper, 140 

A supper! such a supper! butt I'll say no more on't 

Till I see itt 

My Lord, he told me he was in haste, 

Therefore if you'll come, you'll come. 

If you won't, tell him so your self. 

I'll lose no time, the table fills apace, 

And the glad Preist, has huddl'd o're his grace. [Exit. 

Blan. Half drunk already, thou'lt be dead e're midnight. 
Carino, oh Carino, be discreet, 

Else what thou'st told, may prove a fatal story. 150 

I cannot stay, to reason with thee farther, 
But know that Death, and nothing else shall part me 
From the persuit of the fair Cypprian Queen. [Exit. 

Car. I will not Hinder itt, I will not Blanfort, 
Too well alas! Marina loves thee still, ' 

Perjur'd, ungratefull, cruel as thou art, 
To hang upon thy soft, and chearfuU soul, 
Her load of greifs, and break thy growing pleasures ; 
Nor, will I longer struggle with my fate. 
But casting off this most unlucky garb, 160 

And putting on to-night, my virgin dresse, 

I'll to some holy, secret Cell remove. 

And sigh and Pray, till I've outweary'd Love ; 

Then to the Grave, this hated body give, 

And dye contented, that he so may live. [Exit. 

ACT III SCENE 1st 

A Room of State, the Queen and Clarilla ajypear in a balcony that 
looks down into itt 

Clar. This curtain, safely will conceal you Madam, 
Yett being made transparent, does allow 
That you may see, and hear them as you please; 



300 The Poems of Anne 

Nor will itt now be long 'ere they arrive, 
For I was told they're risen from the table. 

Queen. Then goe, Clarilla, and secure the door, 
That none surprise me 'till I find thee there. [^Exit Clar. 

I wou'd be free, to hate him as I ought. 
His comon theam, as Riccio has inform'd me, 
Is on my Rival, and her labour'd praises, 10 

The better, to insinnuate to the world 
Things, less'ning to my person, and my title. 
Oh! may he urge itt now, and work my cure; 
For still in spite of all the wrongs I bear, 
Ther's something in my soul, too partial tow'rds him. 
But here they come, resentment, help me now. 

Enter as from supper, Aubusson, Lauredan, Blanfort, Monthaleon 
Rivalto, Vilmarin, Linnian, Capriccio, etc. 

Auh. With you, my Lord, we must divide that honour. 
For whil'st by Land, we gained the prize we fought for. 
Your winged Vessels, flew before the wind. 
And oretook Conquest on the watry world. 20 

But now, of War no more — bring in some wine, 
A Lady's health, shall soften the rough sound, 
Conclude the night, and give us peacefull slumbers. 

[Wine brought in, Aub. drinks. 
Health to the Queen of Cyprus, 
I know, my Lord, you are too much a Courtier 
To take offence, at this our civil custome, 
Tho' you, and she are not the freinds I wish yee. 

[Laur. takes the glass and kneels. 

Laur. A Royal health, methinks, comands the knee. 

Blan. A health like this, my Lord, comands the heart. 

Laur. Then with my heart, health to the lovely Queen, 30 
The peace of Angells, and the pow'r of Kings, 
The joys of Love, and wealth of both the Indies, 
Still crown her life, and wait upon her fortunes. 



Countess of Winchilsea 301 

Cap. A rare smooth health, how itt skim'd over the glasse, 
Like a duck and a drake over a smiling river 
Twill come at last to me, I have itt right. [Aside. 

Blan. Dissembler! vile dissembler! 

[Aside whilst Laur. drinks. 
I'll grate his soul through with a wish lesse sounding. 
Health to the Queen, and may she rule in Cyprus. 

Bio. My Lord, this complement exacts our thanks. 40 
[To Laur. while the health goes round. 

Laur. Away, I did not do't to gain thy favour. [Scornfully. 

Ric. So scornful still, oh! I have acted wisely. [Aside. 

[Capr., the health being come to him, falls down on both knees. 

Capr. Health to the Queen of Cyprus, 
May she be still in peace with all the angels. 
In love with Kings, and sent to both the Indies. 

[They laugh, he rises in a rage and breaks the glasse. 
Hang your new coin'd healths, that if a man misse but a 
word, setts you all a laughing at him thus. I know well 
enough, I shou'd have brought in wealth if I cou'd, but 
what has a soldier to do with money. If I live till to-mor- 
row, some shall hear 'ont ; Kings, and Pow'rs and Angels, 
and the Devil and all; keep 'em to your selves gentlemen 
for me, I'll, I'll e'en go sleep, and think on't. 

[Exit very drunk. 

Auh. My Lord forgive him, he is truly honest, 
But has this mighty fault, that he will drink, 
And then be most exceptions as you see. 
But long, I will not lett him keep this custome. 
The night grows late, kind sleep my lord attend you. 

Laur. My Lord good night, good night to all, 
No ceremony, pray. 

Auh. Permitt 'em to attend you 'tis their duty. 60 

[Exeunt on one side, Aub: Blan: Month: on the other Laur Riv: 
Vil: Lin: 



302 The Poems of Anne 

[Re enter as from waiting on the General Riv: Vil: & Lin. 

Lin. A woman ! and so near his holy person, 
Oh! hypocrite, not to be match'd in story. 
But we already have in part unmask'd him, 
By secret whispers, scatter'd round the court. 
Had you but seen the fondnesse of this day. 
Oh! such sweet words, and looks, such nautious praises. 
Of her youth and features, and amorous strokings 
Of her wanton cheeks, you wou'd I think have blush'd, 
Tho' joy'd to see. — 

Riv. Alas! I've seen much more my friends, 70 

Dotage, beyond expression. 

Such fondnesse, that I think his heart must break. 
In that last pang, that shall devide her from him. 

Vil. Oh ! Fate give wings to that perplexing moment, 
When I shall see him stand confus'd and sad, 
Blushing for shame, for what's already past, 
Yett, madly raving, 'cause 'twill last no longer. 
Oh! devil, devil, with an Angel's semblance. 
How riggidly still has he check'd our pleasures. 
And punish'd ev'ry fault that lookt tow'rds woman. 80 

Oh! I'm impatient for the full discovery. 

Kiv. Lett us about it then; 
You know to-night 'tis I that keep the watch 
And if in walking of the midnight round, 
I can find out deeds, as dark, and close as that, 
Be neer att hand, to hunt the game I spring yee. 
Till then farwell. 

Lin: We will not fayle, and so good night dear mischeif. 

[Exeunt Lin: & Vil: 

Elv. Farewell dear fools, whom I but trust by halves, 
Yett make such use of, as occasion calls for. 90 

They must not know, how far my self 
And Blanfort are concern'd. 



Countess of Winchilsea 303 

Least if they found itt had a false foundation, 

They shou'd not urge the plott on Aubusson. 

Nor will she in the midst of her disgrace 

Declare the truth, 

For fear her lover, shou'd yett more detest her. 

Tho' if she shou'd, 'twere easy to posesse 

The censuring world, that 'twas contrived still 

To secure the Master, his nephew only 100 

Took itt to himself. — 

And to keep off all proofs of former love, 

I've stole the contract, and all other pledges 

Which they might have produc'd to gain beleif. 

But 'tis the time that Lauredan expects me, 

Whose harmlesse purpose too, shall serve my ends, 

And may the projects of this fatal night, 

On those I hate, in blood, & ruine light. [Exit. 

The scene changes to the Queen's dressing-Room, a toilett spread, 
Enter the Queen and Clarilla 

Queen. The hour is come in which I us'd to rest. 
But rest is not so forward as the hour. 
Leave me awhile to think away my sorrows, 
And when that's done, I will again recall thee. [Exit Clar. 
He wish'd me peace, 

But to posesse itt, I must n'er have seen him. 
He wish'd me pow'r, yett knew not at that moment, 
But I might have employ 'd itt to his ruine. 
He nam'd the joys, the mighty joys of love, 
And oh ! me thought, that word so well became him, 10 

I cou'd have stood to hear him speak itt ever. 
Why, did I fondly wish again to see him, 
And hope a cure, from what first bred my pain? 
Oh! I have done, as hasty gamesters use. 
Who having lost part of their shining store. 
Sett all the rest, on one adventurous cast, 



304 The Poems of Anne 

And leap into the mine, tliey wou'd fly from. 
Ha! What noyse is that? [She hears a noyse. 

The night's far spent, and ev'ry sound breeds horrour, 
Again! 20 

[Two men appear att the door in disguise, one speaks to the other, 
& then retires. 

First. I'll keep 'em from their posts till you return. 
Come boldly back, and fear no opposition. 

[He goes off & the other comes just within the door. 

Queen. Protect me heav'n, from farther acts of treason, 
My life alone, is all the past have left me. 

[As she is going to the contrary door, he kneels & speaks. 

Second. Oh! fly not madam, fly not from your safety, 
From him, who wears his life but to preserve you; 
Can there be terrour, in this humble posture. 
These arms thus folded, and this awfuU distance? 
Lett reason tell you, that if I were wicked. 
And dark intents, had brought me on thus far, 30 

Your inmost room, your Closset cou'd not save you, 
But prove a fitter scene, for acts of mischeif. 

Queen. 'Tis true, who 'ere he is, I'm in his pow'r. 

[Aside, stopping at the extremity of the stage. 
Therefore, had better humour this respect. 
Till I can search into his secret purpose 
Which may not be so bad, as fear presents itt. 
Keep then that distance still, and I will stay, [To him. 

And trust, so much, to what you have deliver'd. 
As to demand the cause, for which you came? 

Second. To putt into your hands, your beauteous hands, 40 
Your people's homage, and your Rival's fate. 
The Gen'rall's life, that once oppos'd your right, 
And all the Royal dignity you've lost. 

Queen. The Gen'rall's life, oh! then I must discover, 

[Aside. 



Countess of Winchilsea 305 

And prevent him. 

Such sounds as these, indeed comand attention, [ To him. 

And the', they like the Syrens, led to ruine, 

Yett, wou'd I listen to the soft enchantment. 

\She comes towards him. 
And thus discarding all my woman's fears, 
Will boldly ask, in whom the power is lodg'd 50 

To work these miracles, you have declar'd. 

[He discovers himself to be Lauredan. 

Laur. 'Tis all in Lauredan, and he in yours. 

Queen. Ha ! Lauredan, nay then again I fear. [She starts. 

Laur. So, starts the passenger, who in his way 
Meets a yong Lyon, arm'd with pow'r to kill, 
And in that moment of his fear, forgetts. 
That nature, bids the royal savage tremble 
Before the awfull form, of Godlike man. 
As I do now in presence of your charms. 
Oh! do not wrong them. Madam, by distrust, 60 

Or think your self lesse safe, thus arm'd in beauty, 
Then the yong Grecian, with his phalanx bound. 
Who stood unmov'd, the shock of all the persians. 

Queen. This flattery my lord, breeds more suspicion. 

But curiosity, our sexes frailty 

Will yett prevail, to make me hear you farther, 

If you will rise, if not, I must retire. 

[He rises, she goes on. 

Pray rise my lord, why shou'd you kneel to me, 

Alas! you best can tell I am no Queen? 

Think on that day my Lord, I ever shall, 70 

When all the room I cou'd comand in Cyprus, 

Where I had liv'd in peace, and rul'd in love. 

And been my self, the Genious of the place, 

Was but one poor appartment in my pallace. 

Which had its deep foundations in the sea; 



306 The Poems op Anne 

Some few attendants my ill fate had left, 

Who told with me, each shout the people gave, 

As their new Lord, passed throo' the crowded streets, 

And now, so neer, the horrid tumult came. 

That in dispair, leaning on Riccio's arm, 80 

I bid him lead me, to my last dominion, 

A poor frail bark, that danc'd upon the waves. 

And yett me thought, was steddyer then my Island, 

When you my Lord came in. 

Laur. When I came in! 
And saw more beauty breaking throo' your tears, 
Then rose with Venus, when she left the deep; 
When I came in ! 

A wretched Conqu'rer, in the Tyrant's cause, 
Which then, I did beleive to have been just, 90 

But oh! your eyes soon punish'd the mistake. 
And cast such lightning, as destroy'd my laurells, 
D'you bid me Madam, think upon that day. 
In all th' account of time, I know no other: 
The part of life I spent, ere that arriv'd. 
Like a dull, empty scene, is all discard'd: 
And since 'tis past, my thoughts have had no buisnesse, 
But to preserve, and represent itt to me. 
And, madam, since so nicely you recount itt. 
Oh! Lett me speak, what I endur'd that day, 100 

I saw, ador'd, and dy'd for you that day, 
And yett, that fatal day, provoked and lost you. 

Queen. My lord, you take occasion from my fortunes 
To speak such things, as else you wou'd not offer. 
Yett, make them true, oh Love, and I'll adore thee. [^Aside. 

Laur. Be witnesse Love, and all thy gentle pow'rs. 
If one presumptuous thought, inhabitts here. 

[Pointing to his breast. 
Yett I do love, beyond what words can utter; 



Countess of Winchilsea 307 

Fortune be witnesse, and the Crown I part with, 

If Lauredan grows giddy with successe. 110 

Hear Madam ! what your subjects have decreed, 

And what is too, confirm'd by the Venetians, 

Whose pow'rs expell'd and keep you from the throne, 

First, that Cornara, whom att last they j&nd 

Too weak to hold itt, quitt the Sov'rain sway, 

Then that the Crown shall be confirm'd on me. 

And all my race, to wear itt by succession, 

Some lessening offers to your self they make. 

Not fitt for you to hear, or me to mention. 

Queen. D'you come my Lord, for my consent to this ? 120 

Laur. Oh ! hear me out, another frown like that 
Wou'd strike me speechlesse, 
Hear 'ere it kills, what Love and I decree. 
What Heaven decrees. 
Who has inspired my army with one soul. 
And made that plyant, only to my wishes. 
You are their Queen, and mine. 
Again we will replace you on the throne. 
And bound the uttmost height of our ambition, 
To be the guard, still of your crown, and Person. 130 

Queen. 'Tis highly gen'rous this, I must acknowledge ; 
Yett let me ask, why with this fair dessign, 
You here have made such rough, such harsh demands, 
As aimed more to confine then reinthrone me. 

Laur. Indeed th' occasion forc'd me to be secret, 
And keep my real purpose unreveal'd. 
The power of Venice is att sea so mighty. 
That I cou'd ne'er have seen you safe att Cyprus, 
Had I not won them with a fein'd pretence. 
That 'twould more firmly fix me in the throne, 140 

If in my pow'r, I held the true pretender. 
And so, procur'd them, 'ere I was declar'd, 



308 The Poems of Anne 

To give me means, to compasse my dessign. 
Yett, lett me kneel, for seeming to offend, 
And breaking thus, upon your private hours. 
Which I had shunn'd, but that deny'd your presence, 
I cou'd not serve you, but by this intrusion. 

Queen. I'm satisfy'd, my Lord, pray kneel no more. 

Laur. No, lett me kneel. 
And if there were a posture more submissive, 150 

Low as the grave, and humble as my hopes, 
Twoud now become, what I must speak or perish. 

Queen. Proceed my Lord, 
And think, you cannot easily ofend me. 

Laur. Then, lett me ask, since 'tis my heart's concern, 
When I have compass'd, what my life has toyl'd for. 
And plac'd you uncontrol'd in sov'raine pow'r, 
If Blanfort, shall not enter on my labours. 
And reap the dear rewards, I dare not think of. 

Queen. My Lord, you wrong me much, if you suppose itt, 
Lett that suffice, and urge your fears no farther. 161 

All you have said, this night, I will reflect on. 
And in the morning, give you private notice 
How I shall act in such a great concern. 
Pray rise my lord. [i?e rises. 

Laur. Oh ! Give not all the night to thoughts of buisnesse, 
If I had n'er admitted softer cares. 
You'd now had no occasion for them. Madam. 

Queen. My Lord, good night, I wish you safe retir'd 

Laur. Permitt this honour first, that I'll take care of. 170 

[^Leading her within the scene. 
Enter at the other end of the stage Blanfort 

Blan. A letter thrown just now in at my window 
Tells me, that one alone, and in disguise 
Enter'd a while agoe, the Queen's apartment. 

[Laur. returns from the Queen. 



Countess op Winchilsea 309 

Tis true indeed, and Lauredan's the man. 

Laur. So late, and Blanfort here, amazment strikes me. 

\_Aside. 
Blan. My Lord, this visit being out of season. 

In the great Masters name, I must demand 
For what occasion, at this hour you gave itt. 

Laur. I wou'd not fight in hearing of the Queen. [Aside. 
Come you from him my lord with this commission, 180 

If so, to-morrow I'll inform him of itt, 
If not, give way, I own no other power. 

Blan. No, stay my Lord, 'tis from myself I ask itt, 
And will be bold, or this shall force an answer. [Draios. 

Laur. Take then the best reply, that this can make you. 

[They fight, and Blanfort /aZZs. 
Enter the Queen, Clar. & Ric, who supports Blan. 

Queen. Oh dire misfortune, call more help Clarilla, 
Look up my Lord, oh! speak and say you live, 
He's dead he's dead, else wou'd my voyce 
Have wak'd him — 

I know att least, itt wou'd have forc'd one sigh, 190 

If he had breath enough to have supply'd itt. 

[Laur. observes the Queen all this ivhile. 

Laur. Oh! mortal sound, wou'd I were in his place. 

Yett hear me Madam, hear me, but a moment. 

[She weeps by Blan, 

Queen. Twas hearing you my Lord, drew on this mine. 
Oh ! do not urge itt now, but leave the place. 
This fatal place, and 'ere the morning passe, 
I'll yett send to you. 

Laur. I know not how to understand this rightly. 
But will have patience, till I hear her answer. [Exit Laur. 

[Enter Servants and Chirurgeon. 

Queen. Oh ! Aubusson, when thou shalt hear of this, 200 
How will it greive thee, to have harbour'd me. 



310 The Poems of Anne 

That (though unwilling) is the wretched cause 
Of his sad fate, and thy perpettual mourning, 

Siwg. Madam, he breathes, we'll bear him to his lodgings, 
I think the wound is in no mortal part. 
Take him up gently, and convey him hence. 

l_Ex. Surg, with Blan., etc. 

Queen. You stand amaz'd, and seem to wonder Riccio, 
The General and I have had this meeting. 
But his intentions are not what you think 'em, 
Come in with me, for I have much to tell you, 210 

And ne'r I think, have wanted more your councill. 
Oh ! Blanf ort live, that greif sitts here so heavy. 
Twill not affoard room for one pleasing thought, 
Tho' that remov'd, I've all I'd ask of fortune. 

[Ex. Queen, Clar. & Kic. 
Enter Kivalto 

Riv. The letter, which I threw in att his window, 
Had the desir'd effect, I saw 'em fight. 
And Blanfort sure is kill'd. 
Marina too, as I cou'd have contriv'd itt, 
Is weeping by a taper in her Chamber, 

Dresst in her female garb, Ho! Vilmarin Linian, 220 

I'll make 'em go that way, to call the Master, 
And tell him of these accidents have happen' d, 
Who when he hears the noyse, will be drawn theither. 
And being caught by them, with her alone, 
Will seem to all, as guilty as I've made him. 
They come not, yett I bid 'em be att hand 
Curse on their neglegence, all may be lost by 't 

Butt I must go find em [Exitt. 

The scene changes to Aub^ ante chamber. He in his night- 
gown, talking ivith Monthaleon. 

Aub. I will correct itt, I will indeed Monthaleon, 
And tho' the war, as 'tis itts banefull custom, 



Countess of Winchilsea 311 

Has sown amongst us, the foul seeds of vice, 

They shall not thrive, or bear their fruits in Rhodes. 

Month. My lord, you take the best, and surest method, 
By setting such a pattern as your conduct, 
Who lead, before your forty 'th year's arriv'd, 
A life, that aged Hermitts cannot reach to. 

Aub. I wou'd do so, but speak of that no more. 
This night, I talk'd to Vilmarin and Linian, 10 

And freindly counsail'd them, to leave their vices, 
At which they smil'd and said they'd be more secret. 
My Confessour too, 'ere he left my Clossett, 
Pour'd out a flood of tears, and cry'd beware, 
Beware hypocrisy, that sin of Devills. 
It something troubles me to know the meaning. 
But I have trespass'd on thy rest too long. 
Only remember this, to tell Capriccio, 
When next he's drunk, I'll have him sleep 
Without his Souldiers office. 20 

Good-night Monthaleon. 

Mont. Good-night my Lord, and rest compose your 
thoughts. ^Exeunt severally. 

ACT IV SCENE I 

Marina's Chamber. She appeal's drest in her Womayi's habbitt 

Mar. I've wept enough, and now farwell, for ever, 
Farwell my good, my great, my gen'rous Master 
Farwell these walls, where I have felt more sorrow 
Than all the stones can count, that make the pile. 
Farwell Rivalto, Auther of my ruine; 
The world farwell, and, all itts vain delusions. 
Yett, there's one farwell more, cou'd I but speak itt, 
But oh! 'twere vain, to say farwell false Blanfort, 
Since in my heart, I bear him with me still, 



312 The Poems of Anne 

But I must go, before the day appears, 10 

Kind night conceal my blushes, and my fears. 

[She goes with a key in her hand, to the door. A violent calling 
and knocking is heard from the other side of itt. 

Vil. Ho! Carino, open the door, Carino, 
We must immediately speak with the great Master; 
Ho! Carino. 

Mar. Oh! I am ruin'd, whether shall I run. 
How 'scape their sight, how answer them 
How stay them? 

Lin. Ho! rise Carino, rise and lett us through. 

Mar. I must speak to 'em, why d'ye call thus loud, 
Your haste and noyse, has made me loose the key? 20 

I cannot lett ye in, why come ye this way. 
The other's free, I cannot lett ye in. 

Li7i. No, Vilmarin was there, and 'tis barr'd up. 
Break down the door. 

Mar. What shall I do, that's the great Master's chamber. 

[Pointing to the other door. 
Yett in this danger I must try to 'scape 
By stealing down that way, to gain the street. 

[She going to that door. Enter Aub : in his night gown, his sword 

in his hand. 

Aub. There's sure some mutiny they call so loud, 

[Seeing her. 
Ha! What art thou, thou dreadfull apparition. 

[She covers her face with her handkercheif. 

Mar. Oh! I am nothing, nothing but confusion. 30 

[They heat down the other door. Enter Mont: Riv. Vil: Lin: Capr. 

Month. What do I see ! 
My sight sure plays me false. 
And night has rais'd a Vision to distract me. 

[Aub. stands amazd saying nothing. 



Countess of Winchilsea 313 

Vil. Your arms my Lord are needlesse, we'll retire, 
Nor did we mean to interrupt your pleasures. 

JRiv. Indeed I wou'd have led them t'other way, 
Knowing this was your scene of private joys. 

Lin. Be not concern'd my lord we'll keep the secret, 
Alas! you know, this way, we've all our failings. 

[Aub. leans upon Month, seeming weak and dispirited. 

Auh. Come heither freind, if yett thou'lt own that title, 40 
I did not ask to be supported thus. 
When with one bold Hungarian by my side, 
I fac'd the Turks, and bore against their army, 
Till ours that fled, return' d to fame and conquest. 

\Throics away his sword. 
Lye there my sword, for I am yett a Christian, 
Else wou'd I put thee to a braver use, 
And wash this stain from my polluted honour. 
With blood as noble, as an ancient Romans. 
Oh ! that I cou'd convince thee my Monthaleon ; 
Yett, when thy Master's lay'd in humble dust, 50 

Try to persuade the world, I was not wicked, 
Not that vile wretch, 
Which this foul chance, wou'd speak me. 

[Marina all this time weeping and leaning against the scene. 

Mont. My lord, I've kept my eyes still on the Maid. 
And 'tis your Boy, Carino in disguise. 
Be comforted, 'tis nothing but a Trick, 
I know itt is a trick, and we'll revenge itt. 

[Lin. pulls aside her garment and discovers her neck. 

Lin. This neck, methinks is counterfitted well. 
And breasts like these, do much disguise a boy. 

Mont. Itt is Carino, but itt is a woman, [Aside 

I know not what to think, and stand confounded. 61 

Aub. Oh! take her hence, remove her from my sight, 



314 The Poems of Anne 

I care not who she is, nor why she came. 
All leave the room, all, but Monthaleon leave me, 
Nor will I bribe your foul and blister' d tongues. 
To hide this scandal, from the babling world. 
'Tis Heavn's concern, that Innocence like mine 
Shou'd stand upright, without such vile supporters. 

Lin. Shall we not tell him of his nephew's hurt. 

[Aside to Monthal. 

Mont. Not for your life, he bears too much already. 70 

Riv. Be still secure, and happy if you please. 

[Aside to Mar. offering to lead her. 

Mar. Stand off base wretch, stand off, and do not touch me, 

I'll put myself into Capriccio's hands. 

And fly from thee, and from thy brace of furies. 

Capr. The Master's Mistresse, under my custody, 

[Aside. 
See how preferment comes sometimes unlookt for. 

Give me your hand Lady, and this shall still protect you. 

[Exeu7it all but Aub. and Month. 

Month. My lord, I beg you wou'd again retire, 
And seek to rest — 

Leaving itt to your freinds, and cheifly me, 80 

To sound the depth, of this most vile contrivance. 

Auh. Oh ! They have strook me in the tend'rest part 
The subtle villains, exquisite in mischeif. 
Knew this would wound me, deeper then their daggers; 
My life, I cou'd have yielded them, Monthaleon, 
Wou'd they had taken't, when my fame was clear. 
Then had I sett, like the declining Sun, 
With all my glorious beams, about my head, 
And left the world, repining at my fall. 

But oh! to horrid darknesse, now I goe, 90 

Wrapt in those deeds, that seemingly are soe. 

[Ex : leaning on Month. 



Countess of Winchilsea 315 

The Scene changes to the Queen's Apartment, Rice: alone 
Eic. It was my master peice, and hard I wrought itt, 
How I was forc'd to swear that to my knowledge 
Those proffers, were but baits, to catch her freedom ; 
That all his army, was dispers'd and broken, 
His int'rest quite declin'd with both the states, 
And that he had no means again to raise itt, 
But by obliging 'em, with her full ruine. 
Yett all prevail'd not, till at last I urg'd 
That still he languish'd for the proud Usurper, 
And sent from hence, as I assur'dly knew, 10 

Expresses to her, charg'd with love, and duty; 
This stirr'd that passion in her I desir'd. 
And so, procur'd a message to my wishes, 
Which lost not of itt's force, by my delivery, 
But he's by this time gone. 

And all my fears, and cares, are vanish'd with him. 
Better be here, depending still a[t] Rhodes, 
Then under his dominion, though in Cyprus. 

Enter Clarilla 

Ric. Clarilla, is the Queen yett to be spoke with? 

Clar. She is not Riccio, but has sent her orders 20 

That you shou'd lett me know the Gen'rall's answer, 
Or send it written, if he so commanded. 

Eic. I thought to have conceal'd the papers from her, 

[Aside. 
But if she shou'd hereafter come to know itt, 
That, yett may prove of greater danger to me. 
Besides he's gone, and I'm resolv'd to venture. 
Then tell her, that I found him all alone, 
Expecting as he told me, her comands. 
And from my lipps, no sooner were they fall'n. 
But he retir'd, and wrote in haste this letter, 30 

Which sure, I think, encloses more within itt. 



316 The Poems op Anne 

Then call'd an Officer, that waited neer, 
And bid his Anchors instantly be weigh'd, 
For that he wou'd immediatly on board. 
The other, vainly urg'd a storm was risen 
Which might endanger him, and all the fleet. 
For he persisted still, to have itt done. 
Then gave me this, and flung out of my presence. 
I know no more — But how the Queen resents itt. 
And what's contain'd, in all this pacquett here, 40 

Shall hope to hear from you. — [is going but returns. 

I had allmost forgot, tell her 
That Blanfort's wound is of no danger. 
Nor such, as to confine him to his bed. 
Th' expence of spirits, in his mighty passion 
Being the cheif cause, that sence, and motion left him. 
As I came back, I mett this information. [Exeunt severally. 
Enter Capriccio drunk 
Cap. 'Tis a rare world, a brave world, 
A ranting, flanting, shining world; 

Not a tavern in the town but's in a blaze, 50 

Not a pretended sister, cosen, or other civil Relation, 
That is not publickly own'd, 
For an errant, tory rory strumpett. 
Linnian leads up a couple, Vilmarin a couple more, 
Only that rogue Rivalto, 

Has the impudence, to sin in secret, now 'tis out of fassion, 
But I'll discover his haunts. 
Or beat him till he owns 'em, 

Never such a time in Rhodes, never such an example. 
Every one quoting the Great Master, 60 

And trooping on to sin, under his banner. 
As if they were beating up Volonteers for the Devil. 
I'll ee'n away, and be drunk with the best of 'em 
And then, as an honest man shou'd. 



Countess of Winchilsea 317 

Go soberly home, and look to my charge, 
A rare time, there's not one now — 

But will come, 
At the beat of my drum, 
Or the tossing up of my feather. 

\_Exit singing. 

The Scene drawn, discovers Blanfort lying upon a couch, Month: 
sitting by him 

Blan. It is indeed a melancholy story. 
But will he leave us, does he say Monthaleon? 

Mon. He does my Lord, 
For having heard the riots of the Town, 
And how they ground em all on his example, 
It strikes him so, together with the thoughts 
That he must n'er attempt to stop itts fury, 
And that 'tis now their int'rest to maintain 
His seeming Vice, to guild their own the better. 
That he resolves, some more successful arm, 10 

Shall take that task, and bear the publick sway, 
Whilst he retires, to secrecy, and prayers. 
Blan. Oh! thou art wretched Blanfort, [Aside 

What said the Maid, 
For such I sure beleive her. 

Month. No word she uttered, yet her silence spoke, 
Att least to me, that so did understand it, 
And said, that she was wrong'd, was wrong' d, and guiltlesse. 
And more I must observe to clear her farther. 
That since she as a youth, has served the Master, 20 

Not all his gentle chidings, cou'd prevail 
To make her once attend him in his chamber, 

Blan. How look'd she freind, in such a sad surprise? 

Month. Modest, and lovely Blanfort, 
As looks the fair, and gentle rising morning. 
When watry vapours, half conceal her blushes. 



318 The Poems of Anne 

Blan. Tis I that ought to blush, poor, poor Marina. [Aside. 
Has she since nothing told of who she is, 
Or what induc'd her to assume this shape. 

Month. Nothing, but only sais she is a wretch, 30 

And urges to be sent into a Convent, 
Which is deferr'd, in hopes of some discovery. 

Blan. Oh ! gen'rous Maid, what does she not deserve ? 
I'll try to find her out, that we may meet. 
And weep att least, over our mutual sorrows. [Aside. 

Where is she lodg'd, who has her now in charge? 

Month. Cappriccio has dispos'd her neer this place, 
Her lodging joyns close to the Pallace wall. 
And has a door, that us'd to lett into itt. 

Blan. No more of this, 40 

To Lauredan, what's happen'd since our quarrel. 

Month. He's gone on board, and toss'd with such a storm, 
Tis thought he'll perish 'ere he leaves the Port. 
But certain 'tis, the Queen of Cyprus loves him. 
Her present fears, have told itt to her women, 
And they (as women use) to all the world. 

Blan. This does not move me, as I should have thought. 
My guilt, has fill'd my mind, with so much horrour. [Aside. 
I will go rest upon my bed Monthaleon, 
This posture to my wound is most uneasy, 50 

And oh! to my afflicted kinsman, say 
That I would dye, to sett his fame as clear 
As in th' all seeing eye of Heav'n, itt stands. 

[Exeunt, he leaning on Month. 
\_Enter Kivalto, Vilmarin and Linnian 

Lin. To search our houses, for the state's lost jewels, 
I ne'r yett knew of any of them missing. 
They're so remarkable, 'twere vain to steal them. 
'Tis but a trick — 
To give us some disturbance, in revenge. 



Countess of Winchilsea 319 

Riv. It may be so, but still ye have done well 
To send in all your wealth, that that may 'scape them. 60 
I've lodg'd it safely, safely as my own. 
And when this search is past, you'll call it back. 

Vil. Oh! yes, itt shall but trouble you till then. 

Riv. To serve my freinds, I n'er yett thought a trouble, 
But since I stand the foremost in their hate. 
And I am sure, they mean the search I tell ye. 
Not knowing, but they may extend it farther. 
And under that pretence, secure my person, 
I am resolv'd, that I'll awhile withdraw. 
What think ye of itt, will itt not do well. 70 

Lin. Do as you will, when shall we hear of you. 

Riv. Before three days are past, assure your selves. 
Therefore, 'till then make no enquiry for me, 
Another thing, I had almost forgott, 
The Master sends this night a private Convoy 
To bear his Damzell to a distant Convent, 
And when she's gone, what'ere reports ye hear, 
Know that's the truth, now lett us part. 
For we're suspected, if but seen together. 

Vil. But for three days, you say, you shall be absent, 80 

Riv. Not an hour more. ^ 

Lin. Then till that time, farwell. {Exeunt Vil and Lin. 

Riv. Thus far 'tis right, I've all their wealth on board. 
And now tis mine, in spite of all our freindship. 

For he, whose aim at mighty mischeif tends. 

Must own no gratitude, nor know no freinds. {Exit. 

The Scene changes to the Queen's antichamber, 
Riccio alone. 
Ric. Blow on ye winds, and swell the seas so high 
That ore his fleet, your proud insulting waves, 
May ride in tryumph, sinking all beneath ye. 
I long to hear the temper of the Queen, 



320 The Poems of Anne 

But here Clarilla comes, in time to tell me. 

[Enter Clar. 

How fares it with our great, and Royal Mistresse? 

Clar. Oh! Riccio, I want words to let you know itt, 
But fear the fatal papers which you brought, 
"Will finish, what the tempest has begun, 
And rob us of her most unhappy life. 10 

Mic. Explain your self, what saw she in those papers? 

Clar. That she has lost the most auspitious moment 
That 'ere was influenc'd, by a gentle planett. 
Two writings sign'd, 

By all the Lords of Cyprus, and of Venice 
Declare the Gen'ral King, with one consent, 
And that our Queen, but by espousing him. 
Must ne'r again, expect to rule in Cyprus. 
But oh! his letter, calls this, such presumption, 
As he wou'd ne'r have offer'd to her sight, 20 

"Were itt not to convince her, e're his death, 
That itt was love, not int'rest urg'd him on 
To seek her here, and ofPer at her feet 
That Crown, he might have worn without her favour. 
Then makes itt plain, what he allready proffer'd. 
That 'twas his full intention to restore her 
By his own power, 'ere this had reach'd her knowledge, 
And to herself have left it, to dispose 
Of him, and all his fortunes, at her pleasure. 

Ric. You much surprise me, was there nothing more, 30 
Fool that I was to lett her see those papers. [Aside. 

Clar. Nothing, but sad complaints, and soft expressions 
Jealous mistakes, that 'twas her love to Blanfort 

That repuls'd him. 

And how he greiv'd, his sword had peirct his bosome, 

Since she had in itt, treasur'd up her heart, 

But that itt shou'd procure her speedy vengeance, 



Countess of Winohilsea 321 

By bringing on that death, he went to seek for. 

But whilst I'm here, all this repeating to you, 

Dispair may seize too deeply on her soul, 40 

Go in my Lord, and try to bring her comfort. 

Rlc. I go Clarilla, follow, and assist me. 
How neer was I to see him in the throne, 
Had not his foolish modesty and love. 

Prevented itt, and so secur'd my safety. [Aside. 

I must now meet, and try to lay this passion. 
Her greifs are easyer calm'd then his revenge [Exit. 

Clar. I must stay here, to free my tears awhile 
Which in her presence, I wou'd fain keep back. 
Oh! would this tempest yett but be appeas'd, 50 

We might again see happynesse, and Cyprus. 
But here she comes, alas, who can behold her, 

So Dido saw the Trojan navy part, 

With looks so wild, and such a breaking heart. 

[Enter Queen, disordered, in all the transports of a violent pas- 
sion, 'Riccio folloivs endeavouring to speak to her. 

Queen. Preach to the winds, thou dull, thou doating 
statesman. 
Go to that storm, that plays with all my hopes, 
And try if thou can'st calm itt with a speech. 
Tell itt of inter'est, politicks, and caution. 
And if for these, 'twill bate one angry billow. 
Then may'st thou hope to talk me into patience. 60 

Fool that I was, to list'n to thy counsell. 
To knitt my brow, when love and fortune smil'd 
Because thy coward fears, cry'd out be carefull. 

Ric. Yett, hear me Madam. 

Queen. Away, away, and leave me to my self 
To this soft counseller, that breaks with greif, 

[Pointing to her breast. 
Because it was not harken'd to in season. [Exit Ric. 



322 The Poems of Anne 

A noyse as of a ship, striking against the shoar folloiv'd by 
repeated crys from within of many voyces. 

From w^^in. The Admiral's splitt, send out more boats. 

[r/je Queen sinks into Clarilla's arms. 

Queen. Take me Clarilla, take me to thy bosome, 
And tell those freinds, which fortune yett has left me. 70 
The Gren'rals too (if they vouchsafe to hear thee) 
Tell 'em, that I forgave him all my wrongs, 
Tell 'em Clarilla, that I mourn'd his fall. 
Nay tell 'em (since in death, there's no dissembling) 
I loved him, more, then liberty or Empire. 

Clar. Talk not of dying, since he still may live, 
And 'tis but prudence to support this greif, 
At least, till we can hear our fears are certain. 

Queen. Wou'dst thou then have me stand upon the shoar, 
And wait, like sad Alcyone of old, 80 

'Till some huge billow, cast him at my feet, 
A breathlesse trunk, a pale, and livid corse. 
Oh! no, it is too much, too much to think itt; 
And 'ere the angry sea, returns his body, 
I'll meet his soul in the blest seats above. 
And free my self, from that new scene of sorrow. [She faints. 

Clar. Oh! help, the Queen expires, she dyes, she dyes. 

[Enter the rest of her women, whilst they are busy about her 
enters Lauredan, his dagger in his hand and speaks entering. 

Laur. I'll do itt in her sight, the storm was kind 
To spare my life, for had I perish'd there, 
My eyes cou'd not have told my curious soul 90 

How she receiv'd the off'ring, fate had made her. 

[He sees her fainted. 
Ha! 

Yett hold my heart, Clarilla how came this? 
Is Blanfort dead, else what cou'd kill the Queen? 



Countess of Winchilsea 323 

[He puts the dagger within his cloathes and kneels down by the 

Queen. 

Rest here awhile, thou sure, thou active Cordial, 

That I may pray, as sacraficers use, 

Before I strike to earth, the ready victime. 

O! lovely ruine, beautyfull destruction, [Takes her hand. 

To touch this hand whilst life had lent it warmth. 

Had been to mine, thats so, transporting pleasure 100 

Perhaps 'twill be the same, when both are cold. 

Therefore I'll haste, th' experiment to try 

'Tis death to live, and why not life to dye. 

[Going to stab himself ivith his other hand. 

Clcir. Hold, hold my lord, she breaths again, she breaths, 
Oh ! hold and rather help us to support her. 

[He throws away his dagger, and helps. 

Laur. More gladly, then I'd prop the sinking world, 
If fate, had left that task, to my sole arm. 

[She comes a little to herself. 

Queen. Where have I been, sure itt was Neptune's court. 
For Lauredan was newly there arriv'd, 

And held a Try dent, for his staff of battel. 110 

I heard his voyce, but oh ! his looks were chang'd 
And still methought, he told the list'ning Nymphs 
That 'twas the Queen of Cyprus, sent him theither. 

[She struggles. 
But I will follow him, I will, I will, 
Love that could drive Leander o're the deep. 
Shall dive with me, throo' all the silver waves. 
Till I can find, and tell him I repent. 
But Riccio shall not go, he shall not goe, 
Least he should urge me still to scorn him there. 
And force him to attempt some unknown ruine. 120 

Laur. Oh! harmony, beyond the Thracian Lyre 
No words e're fell so soft, or peirc'd so deep. 



324 The Poems of Anne 

Clar. My Lord, I must entreat you to retire, 
My fear and care, made me forgett my duty, 
And prudence tells me now, you must retire. 

[He holds the Q. still in his arms. 

Laur. Talk not of prudence, in this happy season. 
It must not, nay itt shall not here intrude ; 
When in the feild, I'll make itt rule o're thousands, 
And in the Counsell, pleading for my Queen, 
Permitt itt to direct each word, and gesture, 130 

But Love, that only waits to catch those hours, 
Those few soft Hours, that fall in her wish'd absence, 
Must not be forc'd to quit the hard gain'd treasure. 

[The Q. looking amaz'dly round. 

Queen. Why am I thus, and tell me who are these ? 
My heart, and thoughts, are full of wild disorder, 
Heav'n grant no word has 'scap'd my troubl'd tongue. 
To make me wish, I ne'r had known itts use. 

Clar. Pray be not seen, my lord, 'twill much disturb her, 
You've learnt already that which most concerns you. 
And for the future, trust to be inform'd 140 

Of what may make you still become more happy. 

[He gives the Queen into her arms. 

Laur. So, quitts the dying Miser, that rich store 
Which cruell fate, will lett him grasp no more, 
Promis'd, alike from present joys we move, 
To be in future paid our wealth, and Love, 
But 'tis necessity, not choice, prevails, 
And hopes n'er please, but when possession fails. [Exit. 

Clar. Now gently raise, and lead her to her bed, 
'Tis rest alone, that must restore her spirits. 

[They convey her out. 



COUN.TESS OF WiNCHILSEA 325 



ACT V SCENE I 

The Scene drawn discovers Marina upon a couch, with a book in 

her hand. 

Mar. I've try'd by reading to appease my greifs 
Till my sad eyes, grown heavy as my heart, 
Will serve no longer to pursue the story, 
I'll seek to rest, 

— Kind sleep afoard thy charms, 
To her that knows no peace, but in thy arms. 

[^She falls asleep. 

[Blanfort brought in a chair to the door, turns and speaks to 
them that brought him, then leaning on his sword comes 
weakly on. 

Blan. Wait there, till I return — [ife sees her asleep. 

She sleeps, poor injured innocence, she sleeps. 
And in this balmy slumber, looks so lovely. 
That now the Queen of Cypress, seems not fairer. 
Nor wears the Goddesse of that place more sweetnesse 10 
Why tore I from my heart, these fruitfull charms, 

[He kneels by her. 
To give itt up to others, most ungratf ull ? 
But I againe will plant them deeper there, 
Though misery, is all they now can grow to. 
And oh ! methinks, I sighing hear her say 
When I have told her we must meet no more, 
That Blanfort (tho' repenting) was her mine. [She wakes. 

Mar. Oh! who names Blanfort, who upbraids my love. 
Who says 'twas he that ruin'd poor Marina 
Who says alas, that we must meet no more. 20 

Blan. 'Tis base Rivalto, with his vile confederates. 
Who o're thy virgin fame have drawn a cloud 
So dark, 'twould loose us both, if there encount'ring, 
Else, when my sighs, had blown away my faults 



326 The Poems op Anne 

And, kneeling thus, I'd woo thee to a pardon. 
Our time to come shou'd all have passt in love, 
And joys as soft, and melting as this bosome, 
Marina, oh Marina, must we part? 
By this embrace, and this, I swear we will not. 

[She strives and he quitts his hold. 
Again thy charms, o'recome my ravish'd sence, 30 

And empty honour shall not take thee hence. 

[Going to embrace her. 

Mar. Forbear, my lord, forbear, this must not bee, 
And if again such libertys you take, 
I shall beleive, you think me what they say, 
Pray rise — 
Alas, you're weak, you stagger, lett me help you. 

[He rises and sits doivn by her. 
Now lett us talk awhile, before we sever, 
For they have much to say who part for ever. 
Since first I listen'd to your vows, my lord. 
How I have lov'd you, lett my ruine speak, 40 

That but for you, I priz'd my blooming Youth, 
And what your passion call'd some share of beauty, 
Lett my concealing itt from all the world 
When once you slighted itt, bear witnesse for me. 
That now I love you, more then Misers wealth, 
Then women courtship, or then Tyrant's pow'r, 
Lett this persuade, this last, this tend'rest proof, 
That I will leave you, to secure your fame. 
Though woo'd to stay, by all your moving arts, 
And death must waite upon the seperation. 50 

Blan. If we must seperate, to dye is best. 
But lett me know Marina thy retreat, 
That fame, when charg'd with tidings of my fate, 
May not mistake y^ way, and misse thy mantion. 

Mar. Oh! n'ere believe that she will stoop so low 



Countess of Winchilsea 327 

To seek those shades, where I intend to goe, 
For tho' employ'd, still in adorning Tombs, 
Within the Grave, her splendour never comes. 
There Love and Fame, their pains and pleasures cease, 
And nothing will remain with us, but peace. 60 

[A noise within. 
I hear some steps, and fear a new surprize, 
Lett me but take this look, for 'tis my last, 
Farewell, my lord, this night devides us ever, 
Now lett my eyes begin their work assign' d, [She weeps. 

Till death shall close, or tears shall weep them blind. 

Blan. Will thou forsake me then, to-night my love. 
This fatal night, oh ! stay but till to-morrow. 
Stay but untill she's wearing towards the dawn 
And lett me make thee yett one visit more 
In that soft hour, of secrecy, and love. 70 

I have not told thee half what I've to say. 
Not on these hands, enough renew' d my vows. 
Nor warm'd 'em, with my dear repenting tears, 
I must return, I must return, Marina, 
And then again, we'll thus, and thus, take leave. 

[Eagerly kissing her hand; Capriccio calls from within. 

Cap. Charge, charge, where are you, 
Come let me take care of you quickly. 
Or I shall fall asleep. 

Mar. Away my lord, that noysy fellow's coming, 
Like the loud roar of some o're swelling flood, 80 

To break the gentle murmurs of our parting, 
Farwell to all thats dear — a long and last f arwell. 

[She goes slowhj off, he looking after till she's out of sight. 

Blan. Oh! do not speak itt, nor so swiftly move 
But take by such degrees, that object from me, 
That till tis past, I scarce may feel my ruine, 



328 The Poems of Anne 

So gazes on the low descending Sun, 

The traveller, whose journeys yett not done. 

Follows the latest beam, with eager sight. 

That gone, persue's his way, sad, as prevailing night. 

[Exit, the scene shutts. 
Lauredan, enter to him Clarilla 

Laiir. Oh ! you are come most happily Clarilla, 
For grown impatient of a longer stay 
My love had urg'd me to some new attempt, 
Again to seek the presence of my Queen. 
Tell me, had I offended in my zeal, 
For ore our strongest hopes, still fears will rise, 
And claim their turn, to sway the Lover's bosome. 

Clnr. I think my lord 'twas better you forbore, 
And still, you must support a longer absence, 

Laur. Oh! say not so, repeat itt not Clarilla. 10 

Is this, the promis'd happynesse, you bring. 
For which I gave up pleasures in possession, 
Dearer then life, and high, as Love cou'd make them. 
Or was itt but a dream, and now awak'd. 
The Queen, the lovely Queen, recalls those hopes, 
And says, that reason did not guide her speeches. 

Clar. Nothing of this, she's still the same my Lord, 
And sure to tell you more then that were needlesse 
But 'ere she will determin in your favour. 
Or readmitt you to her wish'd for presence, 20 

Resolves the Prince of Rhodes, her friend, her refuge. 
Her better father, as she justly stiles him. 
Shall be acquainted with the whole design. 
And she, and that, submitted to his liking. 

Laur. I fly Clarilla, to obtain his aid 
And whilst these hours of form, passe slowly by, 
Oh lett my love, still dwell upon thy tongue. 
And plead in gentle terms, for my recalling. 



Countess of Winchilsea 329 

Clar. My lord, be sure of all my pow'r to serve you. 

[Exeunt. 

The Scene drawn discovers a Bedchamber, and Marina alone. 

Mar. I heard his voyce, when in the outward room, 
And in that closett, when I call'd Capriccio 
Me thoughts from hence again he answer'd me. 
But here he is not, and I want his aid, 
T'assist me in my most unhappy flight. 
For now tis death to go, since Blanfort's true 
And bid to him, and love a last adiew. 

Enter Rivalto ^vho locks the door, then overtakes her endeavor- 
ing to gain the other, he locks that also and puts the keys in 
his pockett. 

Mar. Oh! I am ruin'd, ruin'd past redemption, 
Who can asist me now, or hear my crys? 

Riv. No one alive, therefore no more repeat them. 10 

Hear me, for I'll be short, tho' sure as fate, 
How I have lov'd you, need not be repeated, 
But that I will posesse you, is as certain, 
And if your mine, which I therefore wrought, 
As well as to revenge me on the Master, 
Has made you wise enough to yield to this, 
We may be happy both, beyond expression. 
To night, I leave this hated place for ever, 
A vessel waits me at the haven's mouth, 
Laden with wealth, enough to feed our riots, 20 

Take part with me, retire, and be my wife, 
Or, if that name, beares to much of constraint. 
Be free, and lett our pleasures be so too. 
Give me your answer, positive and speedy. 

3Iar. Then take itt thus, I'll dye within these walls. 
Before I'll yeild, to live with such a monster. 

Riv. If your in earnest, here's the way to do itt, 

[Drawing a dagger. 



330 The Poems of Anne 

Nor can you hope but by consent t' avoid itt, 

No, when I told you of my wealth, and purpose, 

'Twas not to lett you 'scape, and so prevent me, 30 

Therefore once more, I sett the choice before you. 

[She weejjs and trembles. 

Mar. Then I will go, leave me an hour but to prepare my 
self, 
And I will go, when you return again. 

Eiv. Oh! fine request, no, I have laid things better, 
A private door behind that loose hung arras, 
Leads down a pare of stairs into the sea, 
A cover'd boat, now waits there to receive us. 
Give me your hand, without one farther thought, 
Else here I'll leave you dead, and 'scape that way myself. 
Your hand Marina. — 40 

Mar. I'll dye e're give my hand to such a villain. 
Thou canst not, darest not, wilt not be so wicked. 

[He going to stab her, she runs towards the bed. 

Riv. Then take that just revenge of all thy pride, 
I've sworn to reach thy heart, and now I'll do itt. 

Mar. Oh ! murther, murther. 
Some unseen pow'r, protect me from this murther. 

[Capriccio starting from the bed, lays hold on Kivalto's dagger 
hand. Whilst they strive the key falls out of Kivalto's pock- 
ett, she takes itt and runs out crying murther. 

Cap. That pow'r am I, oh! rogue, assault a woman, 
Mar. Oh! help, some help to catch a villain. [Exit. 

Capr. I have itt now, but twas a plaguy tugg 

[Cap. gets y^ dagger. 
Ha! what more work, 50 

[Rivalto gets out his sword and endeavours to passe by him he 

draws. 

Then this must stop your course. 

[Enter Blan: leaning upon his sivord. 



Countess of Winchilsea 331 

Blan. It was Marina's voyce, and I'll obey itt, 
I cannot sure, want strength, when she's in danger. 
But see, Capriccio has disarmed Rivalto, 
What is itt, Gentlemen, has bred your quarrel. 

[Capr. with both sivords stands betiveen Kiv. and the door. 

Cap. Nay ask him, how he, and my charge came to fall 
out 
I was quietly asleep, 'till she cry'd murther. 
And then up I got, and have done as you see. 

Miv. Curse on my fortune. 
Give me butt my dagger, and I'll secure ye 60 

From further trouble. 

{Enter Month: and guards with Vil: and Lin: seized. 

Month. Oh! see 'tis true, and he's disarm'd and taken. 
These two were well secured, till time shall show. 
How far they stand concern' d in all his plotts. 
Bring 'em away, all to the Queens apartment, 
Theither the rescu'd trembling Virgin fled. 
And has declared, that 'tis by him confess'd, , 

He cast the scandal on our worthy Master, 
To compasse his revenge, att once and Love. 
That Princesse, therefore makes itt her request 70 

That all may be examin'd, in her presence 
And she may be partaker of his joy. 
You'll go my lord 

Blan. Yes, with your help I will, 
Tis my concern, more then you yett immagin. 

{The Prisoners are carry'd out, by the guards. Blanf. follows 
leaning on Month. 

The Scene changes to the Queen's Apartment. The Queen, Aub: 
Laui-: Marin: Clar: Rice: 

Aub. If I have serv'd you Madam, with such zeal, 

[To tlie Queen. 



332 The Poems of Anne 

As now to do me honour, you acknowledge, 

Permitt me to compleat, and urge it farther, 

By off'ring to your Love, this generous man. 

By Birth a Prince, a sou'dier by profession. 

To fight your battels, and support your Crown. 

And bear the weight, whilst you but know the lustre. 

Queen. My lord, I still have prosper'd by your councills, 
And lett my gratitude prevent my blushes. 
If to your much deserving friend, I own 10 

I n'er comply' d more willingly then now. 

[Laur. kneels and kisses her hand. 

Lau. Oh! thou hast paid me love, for all my sorrows. 
Prepaid 'em all, by this transporting moment, 
And when I seek a Crown, but at these feet, 
May'st thou forsake, and make me great, and wretched. 

[Enter Blan. supported by Month. Capr. guard & prisoners. 

Aub. I have not seen you Nephew, since your hurt. 
Welcome to life and mee. 

Laur. Can you forgive the wound, your self occasion'd? 

Blan. My Lord, I ask your pardon, and the Queens, 
For that rude combat, thus end all our quarrels. 20 

[Embracing him. 

Aub. Now, lett my Joys return, my fame be clear'd. 
And virtue sink no more beneath my scandall. 
Before this Royal presence, speak Rivalto 
All that thou know'st, 
Relating to this lady, and my self. 

Biv. Shall I be free, be favoured and rewarded, 
Without all these, I ask not to be pardon'd. 
If I do speak, and answer your desires. 

Auh. I tell thee no, 
If what thou say'st exposes thee a Villain, 30 

Nor will I flatter Vice, for vertue's service. 



Countess of Winchilsea 333 

Riv. Then lett the world beleive as now they do. 
I will not speak, tho' you cou'd take my life. 

Auh. Oh! harden'd impudence, — search him for papers. 

Riv. Forbear but that, and I will speak the truth. 

Auh. Nay then it is of weight, proceed Capriccio. 

[Riccio seems all the while speaking to Laur. 

Laur. I do not ask, what urg'd you to oppose me, 
But I will make itt now, so much your interest, 
N'er more to do itt, that I will beleive you. 

Capr. Here are my lord, two papers nothing more. 40 

Auh. What's this, come heither Blanfort, 

[Looking on one of y^ papers. 
Know you this caracter — 

Blan. 'Tis mine my lord, and when some points are 
clear'd, 
I shall be both asham'd, and proud to own itt. 

Auh. That nothing here may seem to passe in private. 
Behold a contract, sign'd and seal'd by Blanfort, 
Unto the Duke of Mantua's, yongest Daughter. 
How did this fall into your hands, Rivalto ? 

Riv. From her, herself, whom there you see, I stole itt. 
Spare yett the other, and I'll tell you more. 50 

Auh. The superscription's odd — 

" If in three days, I'm not again in Rhodes, 
Deliver this to Vilmarin or Linain." 
The boatman I suppose, that bore him off, 
Was to be charg'd with this at parting from him, 
Read itt Monthaleon. [He reads. 

It is not fitt that freinds shou'd part without some 
remembrance, and that I may keep you two ever in my mind, 
I have taken w*^ me, never to return, the wealth whiph you 
putt into my hands, to secure; but that I may not be alto- 
gether ungratefull, I must putt you upon a right foundation, 
either to persue the Plott, or come of from itt as you think 



334 The Poems of Anne 

best. Know then, that the Great Master is wholy innocent 
of what's suppos'd, and never knew Marina was a woman, 
'till drawn by me that night into her Chamber, the maid 
was Blanforts right, contracted to him, tho' here not known 
by him to be her self, she's mine att present, having lov'd her 
long, and now farwell, and may your next adventure prove 
more lucky." 

Vil. Robb'd of our witts, and of our wealth att once, 70 

[To Lin. 

Lin. 'Tis vain to talk, we are both fool'd and ruin'd. 

Aub. Such villany wou'd silence one with wonder. 
Did not the joy that this discovery brings 
Work stronger far, and raise me into transports. 
Oh ! hear itt f reinds, receive the happy sound, 
I am no Hypocrite, no secrett sinner; 
Louder then victory, and swift as fame. 
Proclaim itt to the world, I am not wicked. 
And lett this lady, this fair injur 'd lady [To Mar. 

Partake the joy and share the reparation. 80 

Blan. Tis I my Lord, tis I must make her that, 

[Kneels to her. 
And beg all help, to win a pardon from her. 
Oh! now we will not part, we will not part, 
Shall we Marina, thou art silent still, 
Oh! speak, for till that time, tho' twere for ever, 
I wou'd n'er speak more — 

Mar. My Lord, what I have done, enough has spoaken, 
And told the World, my love outrun my prudence, 
That paper speaks, and says I've given my hand 
Already, giv'n itt, where my heart directed. 90 

All I can do, is now but to restore itt, 

[Gives him her hand, he takes and kisses itt. 
And 'tis your fault, if e're again 'tis quitted. 

Blan. I'll hold itt here for ever — 



Countess of Winchilsea 335 

And tye my life, so fast to this soft charm, 
That Death, and nothing else, shall e're dissolve itt. 
Aub. Seize on his Ship, tis forfeit by the Law, 

[To an officer. 
For quitting of the port without a Passe. 
A third of itt shall be thy share Capriccio, 
But let it not be spent my freind in drink, 
I'll ha' no more of that— 100 

Capr. Take itt again my Lord if drinks deny'd 
I know no use, either of gold or silver. 
Oh! world ungratefull world, to spurn att Blessings, 
What mighty good, has not been done by drink. 
What Plotts, have not been brought to light by drink. 
The Goose, that sav'd the Capitol was drunk. 
Or ne'r had gabbl'd loud enough to do itt. 
Had I not now been drunk 
I had not slept upon my charges bed, 

And made you all as drunk, with love and joy, 110 

And must I drink no more — 

to death I'll pine, 
And spend this money all in funeral wine, [They all laugh. 

Aub. Before your death, release your prisoners Captain, 
Your crimes wou'd reach imprisonment for ever, 
But since against myself, they are comitted, 
I'll pardon ye, but upon this condition. 
That of your selves ye freely leave this isle. 
The habitts, and the names of what ye were. 
And least necessity still make ye wicked 
I give ye back your wealth, his part excepted, 120 

[Pointing' to Capr. 
Away, and in three days, be seen no more. 

Riv. I ought to thank you, for this grace, but cannot, 
I'm fal'n so much below my expectations, 
That all your Jayles, can add no suff'rings to me. 



336 The Poems of Anne 

I'll leave this place, for all I hate is here, 

And all I lov'd, is now most hatefull to me. [Exit^ 

Vil. My Lord, this Devil has not damn'd us quite, 
Your orders we'll obey, and blesse your mercy. [Exii Y'i\: Lin 

Aiib. Now fair Marina, own me for your kinsman, 
And all our errours, tow'rd your birth and sex 180 

Forgive, and think we'll ever try to mend them. 

Queen. My lord. I beg to joyn in that request, 
And thus embracing, court you for my freind [To her. 

Mar. I fear I shall grow proud, with all these honours. 
Aiib. I'll send to tell the Duke, your noble Father, 
How you intend to blesse my Nephews Love, 
He's not yett vow'd, nor shall be, but to you. 
And to his own, my lands shall all be added. 
To make him still become more worthy of you, 

[Blan. offers to speak. 
No thanks, dear Youth, I ever meant itt for you, 140 

And cou'd not give itt, att a time more propper. 
To harmlesse revells, lett us now repair, 
Whilst mirth and musick, eccho throo' the air, 
And bear our tryumphs, to the blest above. 
That spring like theirs, from innocence, and Love. 

THE end 



Countess of Winohilsea 337 

AKISTOMENES: OR, THE ROYAL SHEPHERD 
A TRAGEDY 

PROLOGUE TO ARISTOMENES 

To my Lord Winchilsea, upon the first reading the Play to him, 
at Eastwell in Kent 

When first upon the Stage a Play appears, 

'Tis not the multitude a poet fears, 

Who from example, praise, or dam by roate, 

And give their censure, as some Members vote. 

But, if in the expecting box, or pitt, 

The wretch discerns one true, substantial witt, 

Tow'rds him, his doubtful sight, he'll still direct, 

Whose very looks can all his faults detect. 

So, though no croud is gather' d here, today, 

And you my Lord, alone, must Judge this Play, 10 

Much more the ign'rant Author is concern'd, 

Then if whole troops, of vulgar Critticks swarm'd ; 

Since Horace, by your mouth, must all condemn, 

And 'tis her losse, that you're so great with him. 

But, when good Plays scarse pleas' d our Charles's Court, 

(So nice him self, and the refin'der sort) 

A droll, wou'd att Newmarkett make them sport, 

Where rusty copper, dect the strouling Vermin, 

And flannel dash'd with Ink, make princely Ermin, 

Then lett not this poor Poem, quite dispair, 20 

The country asks but plain, and homely fare; 

And if this please, by a good winter's fire 

More then a visite from a neigh'bring squire. 

Or tedious sheet, of doubtful news from Dyer, 

The Writer's too well, paid for all her pain. 

Who'll now begin, in King Cambyses' strain, 

Heroicks, such as FalstafPe heretofore 



338 The Poems of Anne 

Repeated, when a cusheon crown he wore ; 

Yet, those the Hostesse mov'd her eyes to wett, 

These lines, she fears, no passions will begett, 30 

But 'twill appear, in spite of all inditing, 

A woman's way to charm is not by writing. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 



Aristomenes, Prince of the Messenians and Arcadians. 

Aristor, Son to Aristomenes. 

Alcander, a Principal Officer under Aristomenes. 

Demagetus, ) ^^^ ^^ ^^^ Prince of Rhodes, under the Disguise 

Royal Shepherd, \ of a Shepherd call'd Climander. 

Arcasius, An old Lord, under the Habit of a Shepherd, Councellor 

to Demagetus. 
Anaxander, one of the Kings of Lacedemon (for they had always 

Two) and Leader of their Forces against Aristomenes. 
Clarinthus, Chief Councellor to Anaxander, a Lord of Sparta. 
Clinias, A Shepherd keeping his Flock on the Plains of Messenia, 

close to the Walls of Phoerea, with other Shepherds. 

WOMEN 

Herminia, Daughter to Aristomenes. 

Barina, Her Woman and Confident. 

Amalintha, Daughter to Anaxander. 

Phila, Her Woman and Confident. 

Thoeta, ) 

and [ Shepherdesses on the Plains of Messenia. 
Lamia, ) 

Soldiers, Officers, Guards, and Attendants, several Lords of the 
Spartan Cotmcil. 

The general SCENES are Aristomenes' s Camp near the Walls of 
Phoerea; sometimes the Town of Phoerea, and sometimes the 
Plains among the Shepherds. 



Countess of Winchilsea 339 



ACT I SCENE I 

A pleasant Plain by a Wood-side ; beyond it are seen, on one 
side, some of the Shepherds Hamlets ; on the other {at a dis- 
tance) the Walls of Phaerea, a Garrison of the Lacedemonians. 

Enter Climander meeting Arcasius; both drest like Shepherds. 

Clim. Hast thou provided me a Horse and Arms, 
A Sword, Arcasius, that when Time has freed me 
From the Severe Injunctions of a Father, 
May fill my Hand, instead of this vile Hook, 
And fit it for the Work, a Prince is born to? 

Area. Unwillingly, I have obey'd your Orders; 
But, 'till to-morrow's, and the next day's Sun 
Shall light the angry, and contentious World, 
Your Promise to your Father is in Force; 
As well as the Assurance, which you gave, 10 

That in my Custody these Arms shou'd rest, 
Until that fatal Time demands their Use. 

Clim. Call it not Fatal; Oh! that 'twere arriv'd! 
That Aristomenes, the Spartan Terrour, 
Were leading me, this moment, bravely on 
Through Dangers, equal to the Cause he fights for, 
Preserving these free Plains from foreign Bondage! 
Though in the Strife this Body strew'd the Ground, 
To Fame, and Publick Good an early Victim. 

Area. O wretched Rhodes! Thy Ruin is pronounc'd, 20 
And thou beneath th' impending Plagues may'st perish ; 
Since He, whom Oracles appoint to Aid thee. 
Thus wishes with his Own, to sell Thy Safety, 
For the rash Praise of an intruding Warriour. 

Clim. No more of Oracles! 
Which oftner we fulfil by heedless Chance, 
Than the vain Study to pursue their Meaning; 



340 The Poems of Anne 

Which makes me banish, from my lab'ring Thoughts, 
Those Mystick Words, which serve but to perplex them. 
Arc. From Mine they will not part, nor shou'd from 
Yours ; 30 

Which to prevent, ev'n now I will repeat them; 

The Isle of Rhodes shall he of Peace bereft, 

Unless it hy the Heir thereof he left, 

Arid that He toed, ere he returns a gen, 

The Beauteous Daughter of the Best of Men; 

Whose Father'' s presence there shall save the State, 

And smooth the threatning Brow of angry Fate. 

Clim. But, Who this Man, or, Where his Daughter is. 
Was left in Darkness, to employ our Search: 
Yet, in Obedience, Hither did I come 40 

To feed a Flock, and mix with simple Swains ; 
Because the Priests, who sway in Princes Courts, 
Declar'd, that perfect Innocence, and Virtue 
Was to be found but in their lowly Rank, 
And There, the Best of Men was to be sought for. 

Arc. 'Tis True, they did; and therefore urg'd our Prince; 
That slighting (in a Case of such Importance) 
The Pride of Titles, and of equal Birth, 
You might espouse One of these Rural Maids, 
Whose Parents harmless Presence in our Land 50 

Might bring the Blessings of the Gods upon us ; 
And, lest the Wars (which still infest these Countries) 
Shou'd tempt you from from the Fates, and his Design, 
How strictly did He Charge it on your Duty, 
That, 'till the Time, which now. Two Days must end, 
You shou'd not leave these Plains, to seek the Camp! 

Clim. Nor have I done it, as Thyself can witness ; 
But here have spent the long and lazy Hours, 
Carelesly stretch' d beneath some Sylvan Shade, 



Countess of Winchilsea 341 

And only sent my Wishes to their Tents: 60 

But ere the Battle (which is soon intended) 
Shall meet in glorious Tryal of their Right, 
I will be there, and side with the Messenians. 

Arc. Oh! that you wou'd not! 
That first your Native Country might be serv'd, 
Think on her Danger, and your Sovereign's Will: 
'Twas to the Reed, and not the wrangling Trumpet 
He bid you listen, to secure his Peace; 
Nor have you look'd with Love, as he requir'd. 
On any Shepherdess, tho' ne'er so Fair, 70 

Or born of Parents, harmless as their Flocks. 
Low on my Knees, my Lord, let me prevail, [He Kneels. 

That, when the Time, decreed you, do's expire, 
You will not prosecute this rash Design; 
But go with me yet farther on these Plains, 
And seek to please your Father, and the Gods, 
In such safe, humble ways, as they direct us. 

Clim. Nay, prithee, do not kneel; it grates my Nature: 

[Raises him. 
But trust me, when we have subdued these Countries 
When Lacedemon^s Kings shall sue for Peace, 80 

And make great Aristomenes Returns 
Agreeing to his Merits, and their Wrongs, 
And I have gain'd such Honour as becomes me; 
Whate'er thou dost request shall be observ'd: 
And tho' my Soul finds such vast disproportion 
Betwixt the Thoughts, with which she is inspir'd, 
And those, that lodge in these poor Country Maids; 
Yet shall my Duty o'er my Temper rise, 
I'll trust (like Others) only to my Eyes, 
And think, that Women in Perfection are, 90 

Tho ne'er so Ignorant, if Young and Fair, 



34'2 The Poems of Anne 

Arc. Ha ! [A Noise is heard of distant Drums. Aside.] 
Sure I hear the distant Sound of Drums. 
Heav'n grant what I've been told, and kept so secret, 
Of a Design this Day to end the War, 
Be not a Truth too tempting for my Reasons! 

Enter frighted, Thaeta and Lamia, Shepherdesses. 

Thee. Oh! may we here be safe, tell us Climmider? 
For all the Lawns, that lie beyond the Hill, 
Where still our Flocks were us'd to feed in peace, 
Are fill'd with War, and dark with flying Arrows : 100 

The Sheep disperse, whilst none regard their Safety, 
But call on Pan, to shield th' advent'rous Chief, 
The noble Aristomenes from Danger. 

Clim. Hear me, Arcasiiis, hear and do not thwart me; 

[Aside to Arc. 
Not tye me to a few remaining Hours: 
For, by the horrid Shield, that bears the Gorgon, 
I Swear; if thou refuse to arm me now 
With what I sent thee lately to provide. 
These feet shall bear me sandal'd to the Battle, 
This flow'ry Wreath shall mix with their stern Helmets, 110 
And Death I'll take, if not impower'd to give it. 

Arc. Oh ! do not ask my Aid ; but in this Tryal, 
Call all your fainting Virtue to assist 
And help you keep your Promise to your Father. 

Clim. I did not promise him to be a Coward, 
To let the Sound of War thus strike my Sense, 
Yet keep my Heart in a cool, even Temper. 
Hark! this way comes the Noise, and I will meet it. 

[As he is going, a confas'd Noise and Cry is heard within. 

Arc. They're Cries of Grief, and not the Shouts of Battle. 
I hope All's past, lest He and Rhodes shou'd perish. 120 



Countess of Winohilsea 343 

Enter meeting, Climander, Clinias, and other Shepherds. 

1st Shep. Euin'd, Undone ! 

Clin. Let every Shepherd weep! 
Turn their sweet Harmony to Sighs and Groans! 
To the fierce Wolves deliver up their Flocks, 
And leave Messenia to the cruel Victor! 

Clim. The Victor, Clinias! is the Fight then over? 

Clin. It is, and We again the Slaves of Sparta. 

Clim. Then Aristomenes must sure be breathless. 
And, if he's Dead, fall'n in his Countries Cause: 
The Gods have giv'n Him Fame, whilst We are Wretched. 130 

Clin. Oh ! He's not Dead, but Living in their Power, 
Which, 'tis believ'd, they'll use with utmost Rigour: 
Pressing too far on the Auxiliary Troops, 
The Foe surrounding bore him from his Horse, 
Then with the Thongs of their curs'd Cretan Bows 
Bound his strong Arms, and lead him off, in Triumph. 

Clirn. Convert, ye Powers, to Blood and Tears that 
Triumph ! 

Rescue from their vile Hands the noble Prey, 
And send him warmer Friends than Demagetus, [Aside. 

Who, knowing not his Person, lov'd his Valour! 1-iO 

O ill-tim'd Duty, how hast thou betray'd me! 
Where is Aristor? Where's the brave Alcander? [To them. 

Clim. The first may share in his great Father's Fate, 
For ought, as yet, the Army can discover: 
Alcander heads, but cannot lead them on. 
And 'tis believ'd they quickly will forsake him; 
Such cold Dismay and Terrour has possess'd 'em! 
Yet ere we part, forever part from hence, 
(If so the cruel Tyrant shou'd Decree) 

Let us appoint one sad and solemn Meeting, 150 

Where all the Ensigns of our former Mirth 
May be defac'd and offer'd to His Praise. 



344 The Poems of Anne 

That made our Nights secure, and bless' d our Days. 

1st Shep. So let it be! 

Again, one Evening on these Plains we'll meet, 

2nd Shep. But never tread them more with chearful Feet. 
[Exeunt Shepherds and Shepherdesses. 

Clim. Cruel Arcasius ! How hast thou undone me, 
Charming me, with thy Tears, to this soft Circle, 
Whilst the bright Spirit, Honour is gone by, 
And borne away on never-turning Pinions! 160 

Why wou'd'st thou thus contrive against my Fame, 
And rob my fiery Youth of this first War, 
(For which it languish'd with a Lover's Fondness) 
By saying still 'twou'd last, 'till Time had freed me? 
But I will yet pursue it thro' Despair, 
And share their Ruin, tho' deny'd their Glory. 

[As he's going Arc. kneels. 

Arc. Yet, this last time, behold my bended Knees, 
Which if you slight shall of the Gods implore 
A hasty Death, to fall on old Arcasius: 
Nor think, this Posture means to cross your way ; 170 

For, by those Powers I swear; if they will Fight 
As much, we hear 'tis doubted by the Shepherds, 
I will not sue, to keep you from the Army, 
Or bring on me your future Life's Reproaches. 
Let me obtain but This, for all my Service, 
To be first sent to sound their Disposition, 
Which I'll relate with Truth, and help your Purpose: 
In this Attempt Two Hours will not be lost ; 
Oh! give so much, to save his Life, that loves you. 

Clim. Thou hast obtain'd it, by thy promised Aid, 180 
And my long Knowledge of the Truth that guides thee. 
About it then, whilst in that shady Grove, 
I with impatience wait for thy Return. 

Area. Which shall not be prolong'd my Lord, believe me. 

[Exeunt severally. 



Countess of Winchilsea 345 

Enter several Soldiers, running over the Stage, and throwing 
away their A7^ms. 

1st Sold. Away, away, haste to the Woods for Shelter. 
2d Sold. Do they begin to sally from the Town? 
3d Sold. I know not ; look behind him, he that will. 
Here lies my Way — [They run into the Wood. 

Enter more, doing as the former. 
1st Sold. Farewell the Wars! Oh! never such a General! 
2d Sold. Never such Sorrow! never such a General! 190 

Enter more. 

2d Sold. What, is the Army all dispers'd, and broken! 

\_To them. 

3d Sold. No, but the Wisest of them do as We do. 
Away, away — 

Enter Alcander meeting them. 

Alcand. Why do ye fly my Friends, and cast these 
from ye? 
For shame! like Men, that once have known their Use, 
Take 'em again, and wait, or seek the Foe. 

3d Sold. Seek 'em, for what? 
We cannot find our General out amongst 'em: 
'Tis thought they've made sure Work with him already ; 
And now you'd have us run upon their Swords. 200 

We thank you. Captain. Come away, away! 

[Exit followed by some others. 

Ale. Oh! yet my Fellow-Soldiers, stay and hear me; 
Can ye so soon forget your Noble General, 
Your Aristomenes, whose Courage fed ye, 
And by whose Conduct, ye have slept securely 
In reach of Foes, that trebled ye in Number! 
Can ye forget the Care, that heal'd your Wounds; 
The Tongue, that prais'd them ; or those Liberal Hands, 
That pour'd down Gold, faster than they your Blood! 



346 The Poems of Anne 

1st Sold. No ; were he but amongst us, we'd Dye with him. 

2d Sold. We are no Cowards, Captain, nor Ungrateful. 211 
But since they say, He's Dead, What can we do? 

Alcand. Go back, and keep a little while together; 
At least, 'till there are Tydings from the Town: 
Then, if he lives, we may attempt his rescue; 
Or, if he's Dead, in a most just despair 
Burn their accurst Phcerea o'er their Heads, 
And then disperse, when we're so far reveng'd. 
Do this my Friends; Come, come, I know you will: 
You lov'd the General— 220 

1st Sold. Curs'd be He, that did not! 

2d Sold. We will go back, but ne'er shall see him more. 

3d Sold. Then we will Fight no more, that's sure enough. 

4th Sold. Howe'er, let's follow the brave Captain here. 
And stay, 'till we're inform'd as he advises. 

Alcand. Come, I will march before you. 
Take up your Arms and trust, my Friends, to me: 
Your Lives shall not be set on idle Hazards; 
Lose no more time, but let us join the Army. 

[They take up their Arms, and Exeunt. 

Enter Herminia and Barina, Disguis'd like Shepherdesses. 

Herm. Alas! Barina, whither wilt thou lead me? 230 

Bar. To Safety, Madam, poor and humble Safety, 
Which in those Hamlets, now within our Sight, 
The Shepherds find, with whom we may partake it. 

Herm. Thus far indeed thou'st brought me on to seek it, 
Urging the Danger of a Virgin's Honour, 
When left defenceless to the Conqueror's Will: 
But dost thou think, we may not through these Woods 
Find out some gloomy Cave to Men unknown. 
And there expiring, sleep secure for ever? 

Bar. Why shou'd we Dye, 240 

Since Aristomenes may yet be Living? 



Countess of Winchilsea 347 



Herm. Oh! that thou hads't not named him! 

[^She starts and weeps. 
'Till we were lodg'd, where Grief 
Might have its Course; for now 'twill flow 
And stop our farther Passage, barring the Sight 
Which shou'd conduct our Steps. 

Bar. It must not Madam, nor must you indulge it, 
But put on chearful Looks to suit this Habit, 
And make the World believe you what you seem. 

Herm. I cannot do it. 250 

In the midst of Sport 
I should forget the gay, fantastick Scene, 
And drop these Tears, when Smiles were most expected. 

Bar. Then 'tis in vain farther to seek for Shelter: 
Let us return and wait in your Pavilion, 
'Till Anaxander shall command you thence 
To serve the base Delight of some proud Spartan. 

Herm. Oh! yet avert that Fate, ye angry Powers! 
I yield, Barina; make me what thou wilt: 
See, I no more am sad; look on this Brow; 260 

Canst thou read there that I have lost a Father, 
The best, the fondest, and the dearest Father? 
Forgive the tender Thought, that breeds this Change; 
I'll weep it off, and smile again to please thee. 

Bar. No; I'll weep too, for his, that's past, 
And your approaching Ruin. 

Herm. Alas! I had forgot, but now am Calm: 
What must I do? indeed I will observe thee. 

Bar. Then not far hence, conceal'd within this Grove 
Wait my Return, who must go find the Shepherds, 270 

And frame some Story ; that when you appear, 
Thro' no Enquiries we become suspected: 
And in my absence, be your Thoughts employ'd 
To bend your Mind to what the Times require. 



348 The Poems of Anne 

Herm. To Fate and thy Advice I will submit, 

Suit to my alter'd State my low Desire; 

My Fare be plain, and homely my Attire, 

My Tresses with a simple Fillet bind. 

Face the hot Sun, and wither in the Wind; 

In my parch'd Hand a rural Crook be found, 280 

The Trees my Curtains, and my Bed the Ground: 

That Fortune (who at Greatness aims her Blow) 

When thus disguis'd may not a Princess know. 

[Exeunt. 

The SCENE changes to a Street in the Toivn of Phserea {the 
Lacedemonian Garrison) a Rabble and many common Soldiers 
in the Street. 

1st Sold. All's done, all's done my Fellows. 
We may now go home to our Wives and our Shops. 

1st Rahhle. Ay, that we may ; we have caught him at last. 
That has been our Back-friend so long, 
As one may say — 

2d Sold. Nay, I'll be sworn. 
Thou ne'er look'd'st him in the Face: 
But we shall have the tossing, and the tumbling of him 
Assoon as ever the sowre-fac'd Senators 
Have dismiss'd their Judgments upon him. 

3d Rabble. Ay, I'll warrant ye, shall we; 10 

Here, here he comes ; bear back, bear back. 

[Aristomenes bound and guarded is conducted over the Stage, the 
Rabble crouding and following him ivith confus'd Cries and 
Shouts, Exeunt. 

The SCENE changed, discovers a Council- Chamber in Anasan- 
der's Palace: Anaxander, Clarinthus, arid several Lords of 
Sparta. 

Anax. Most happily, my Lords, we now are met. 
To see those Hands in servile Fetters ty'd 
Which broke the Bondage of the proud Messenians, 



Countess of Winchilsea 349 

Whom Sparta long had held in hard Subjection. 
Ere yet their Captive General do's appear, 
Be it amongst your selves, My Lords, resolved 
What Course will answer best our Ends upon them. 
Speak you, Clarinthus, for'most of the Assembly; 
And then, let ev'ry one add what he pleases. 

Clar. Short be my Speech, and plain, as is the way 10 
Which must secure what Lacedemon toils for: 
Let him resign that Country, kept by him 
From the entire Subjection, to our Yoke; 
Or let his speedy Death deliver to Us 
What his too active Life has long kept back. 

Anax. What say the rest? 

All the Sen. All, all agree to this. 

Clar. No middle Course can be of use to Sparta. 

Anax. It is enough ; Call for the Prisoner there. 19 

A Lord. Bring in the Pris'ner; 'tis the King's Command. 

Aristomenes is brought in by the Guard. 

Aristor in a Spartan Dress presses in amongst the Croud, whilst 
Phila appears at the Door. 

Anax. At last, we see the Hero can be Conquer'd, 

[To Clar. 

Clar. Not in his Looks; for they are haughty still. 
And so his Mind will prove, if I mistake not, 
Anax. That you, our Pris'ner now, of late our Foe, 

Have urg'd that Country, where you rule in Chief, 

To break our Yoke, and make Incursions on us, 

Since known to all, will justify our Sentence 

Which is ; That you shall meet the Death deserv'd, 

Unless to keep our Quiet for the future, 

You bring again Messenia to our Sway, 30 

Paying such Tribute, as shall be impos'd 

By Us, the Lords of that offensive State. 



350 The Poems of Anne 

This is the Choice, we kindly set before you, 
And wish, that you would take the safest Part, 

Aristom. Enslave my Country, to secure my Life! 
That Pow'r forbid it, under whose Protection 
I've often fought her Battles with Success, 
And drove th' ill-grounded War home to your Sparta! 

Clar. He braves us in his Bonds: then you wou'd Dye. 

Aristom. I do not say I wou'd; 40 

I am a Man, and Nature bars that saying: 
Yet I dare Dye ; no Spartan here, but knows it. 
But since the Fates (whose Wills we best can read, 
When thus unfolded in their dire Events) 
Tell me by these vile Bonds I must submit ; 
Propose the gentlest Bargain you can make. 
And if I find my Life bears equal Weight, 
I am content to take it, else 'tis Yours. 

Anax. 'Tis not for Us to wave, or change our Terms, 
Mistaken Man, who think not of our Power, 50 

And that we may command what we propose: 
Since the first Sally, now, must take Possession 
Of what your frighted Rout will soon abandon. 

Aristom. My frighted Rout! 
Ye basely wrong with foul reproachful Names 
Those valiant Troops, which yet ye cannot Conquer: 
For know, thou proud insulting Anaxander, 
There's at their head a resolute young Man, 
That will not 'bate thee in his strict Account 
One Sigh or Groan, thy Tortures or thy Dungeons 60 

Shall wrest in Dying from his Father's Bosom. 

Anaxander and the Senate talk among themselves, ivhilst Aristor 

comes forward upon the Stage. 
But there he stands! [Aside seeing Aristor. 

Aristor thro' that Spartan Dress I view, 
And ne'er till now, wish'd not to see my Son. 



Countess of Winchilsea 351 



Protect him from their Knowledge, some kind Pow'r, 
If Youth, or Virtue e'er engag'd your Pity ! 

Clar. Let it be so, and speedily perform'd, \Aloud. 

For He'll ne'er yield to what has been demanded. 

Anax. You nam'd the Dungeon, with a Threaten too 
Of swift Revenge, thinking to fright our Justice : 70 

But we'll take care, first, to perform our Part, 
Then, venture what your daring Son can ofiPer. 
The Dungeon is his Sentence, thither bear him. 

Aristor. Not till this Hand has done a swifter Justice. 

[Draivs and runs at Anax. 

Anax. Ha! what means this, my Guards! 

[He avoids the thrust: Phila runs in. 

Phila. Help, Soldiers, help; seize that distracted Spartan. 
Who now has got a Sword; Disarm, and take him. 

[They disarm him. 

Aristor. 'Tis false; stand ofip, ye Slaves, and know I 
am — 

Phila. Oh ! stop his Mouth ; for if he raves, he Dyes. 

[They stop his Mouth with a Handkerchief. 

Aristom. As sure as now he Lives, had he spoke more [Aside. 
Therefore be blest the Stratagem that stopt him! 81 

Ayiax. What means this, P/w7a; speak, Who is this Madman? 

Phila. One by a Friend entrusted to my Care, 
Sent from the Country here to find a Cure; 
But hearing, as the Croud pass'd by his Lodgings, 
That Aristomenes wou'd soon be Sentenc'd, 
He broke his Ward, and fancy'd He must save him. 
I have pursu'd him, 'till I'm faint with Crying, 
And am confounded at his frantick Passion. 
Oh! Royal Sir, forgive it— 90 

Anax. We do, and pity him: remove him hence, 
Then, to thy Mistress, my dear Daughter, Go 
And say we now again shall soon see Sparta. 



352 The Poems of Anne 

Phila. I shall my Lord! 
Now follow me, I'll lead ye to his Lodgings. [To the Guards 
\_Exit Phila with the Guards bearing off Aristor. 

Arisfom. Whoe'er she be, 
May Heaven reward her, if she means his Safety. ^Aside. 
Now I can meditate on my own Fortunes, 
And slight the worst can reach me. 

Anax. He's deep in Thought which may produce a 
Change. 100 

Again I'll try him — [To Clar. 

Now, Aristomenes, that this wild Chance 
Has given you time to think upon our Sentence, 
Have you enough considered of its Horror, 
To bend your stubborn Will to our Demands? 

Aristom. Yes, Anaxander, I have weigh'd it well: 
That active Faculty, which we call Phancy, 
Soon as you spoke, dragg'd me thus bound by Slaves 
Thro' the throng'd Streets, exciting several Passions; 
The Barb'rous Croud shouted their clamorous Joy, 110 

Because unpunish'd they might sport with Blood; 
Old Men and Matrons, destin'd long for Death, 
With envious Pleasure saw me forced before them 
To tread that Path, in spight of vigorous Nature, 
Whilst tender Virgins turned aside their Heads, 
And dropt, in Silence, the soft Tears of Pity: 
But, Oh! the Soldiers; from the Soldier's hands 
Methoughts I saw their Swords neglected thrown, 
When Fortune shew'd they cou'd not save the Bravest 
(If once she frown'd) from such a Fate as mine. 120 

Clar. He'll move the Croud; urge him to speak directly. 

Anax. All this is from the purpose; plainly tell 
Whether you'll meet our Mercy, or the Dungeon. 

Aristom. My Train of Thoughts to that dark Cave had 
led me ; 



Countess of Winchilsea 353 

I stood reclined upon the horrid Brim, 

And gaz'd into it, 'till my baffl'd Sight 

Piercing beyond the many jetting Rocks 

That help to' break by turns the falling Body, 

Was lost in Shades, where it must rest for-ever: 

And ready now to be pushed rudely off, 130 

This was my last, and best Reflection on it. 

That there dwelt Peace, which is not to be found 

In his dark Bosom, that has sold his Country. 

Anax. Away with him to instant Tryal of it: 
See this obey'd, and plunge him headlong down; 
There, he'll have Time, if Life, for such fine Thoughts. 
Away, and bring me word it is perform 'd. 

[Exeunt Anax. and Lords. 

Aristomenes born off. 
Babble and Sold. Away, away; the Dungeon, the Dun- 
geon. 
Peace and Prosperity to Lacedemon! [Exeunt. 

ACT II SCENE I 

A Room in the Palace. Aristor alone. 
Arist. I've torn with Cries the Roof of this vile Mansion. 
And from that Window, barred too closely up 
To give me leave to leap upon their Heads, 
Have curs'd the Croud, and told 'em whose I am: 
At which they laugh and cry, 'tis Phila's Madman. 

[He attempts but cannot force the Door. 
Confusion! that she dares confine me thus! 
Whilst my free Thoughts, unfollow'd by my Hand, 
Must see that cursed Deed, they can't prevent. 
Oh! Aristomenes, my noble Father! 

Hear me, ye Fates, and let me but Revenge him ; 10 

Give me Revenge ; and now, methinks, I grasp it, 



354 The Poems of Anne 

Broke thro' his Guards, I seize upon the Tyrant, 

And stab him thus, and thus — [He acts all this. 

Then bear him to the Ground, thus falling on him, 

And to his Heart thus tearing my wide way. 

Oh! O', O', O', — [Throws himself upon the Gh^ound. 

Enter Amalintha, the Door by one without immediately locked 

after her. 

Amal. Where is this wretched Mourner? 
Oh! let me find him, tho' to raise his Sorrows 
With the sad Sound of my repeated Groans. 
Ha! on the Ground! then be it too my Seat! 20 

[Sits on the Ch^ound by him. 
For I will share in this Excess of Grief, 
As well as in the Days of milder Fortune, 
I bore a part in Love, that knew no Measure. 
O Aristomenes! oh! my Aristor! 

[She puts her Handkerchief before her Eyes weeping. 

Aristor. Whoe'er thou art, repeat again that Sound: 

Such Groans shall hourly issue from his Dungeon, 

And fright the bloody Spartans into Madness. 

[He looks up. 

Ha! sure I shou'd know that Form, that Shape, those Limbs, 

That lab' ring Bosom, and those Locks dishevel'd: 

But take not from thy Face that friendly Cloud; 30 

Do not expose it, lest thro' all its Charms 

My deep Revenge find out whose Stamp it bears, 

And urge me on to something Dark and Fatal. 

Amal. This from Aristor! this to Amalintha! 

[She rises and sheivs her face. 

Aristor. Why wou'd'st thou tempt me thus advent'rous 
Maid, 
And bring the Blood of Anaxander near me? 

[Coming up fiercely to her. 



Countess of Winchilsea 355 

Canst thou too fondly think, that Love's soft Bands, 

His gentle Cords of Hyacinths and Roses, 

Wove in the dewy Spring, when Storms are silent, 

Can tye these Hands, provok'd by horrid Murther! 40 

Oh ! do not trust it — 

But fly this Ground, while I have Power to bid thee. 

Amal. Aristor, no; my Flight shall not preserve me: 
The Life, I've kept but to indulge your Love, 
Now to this loud, mistaken Rage I offer. 
Take it. Oh! take it; Means cannot be wanting, 
Altho' no Instrument of Death be near you: 
This Hair, these flatter'd Locks, these once-lov'd Tresses 
Round my sad Neck thus knit will soon perform it; 
Or, on these trembling Lips your Hand but prest 50 

Will send the rising Breath down to my Heart, 
And break it, telling who deny'd it Passage. 

Aristor. Tryal beyond the Strength of Man and Lover! 

Amal. Or, if you wou'd be quicker in Dispatch, 
Speak but a few such Words, as now you utter' d. 
And my poor hov'ring Soul will fly before 'em. 
Farewel Aristor, see! the Work is done: 
I did but think I heard their killing Sound, 
And the bare Fancy saves you farther Study. 

[She faints, he catches her in his Arms. 

Aristor. Oh! stop the glorious Fugitive a moment; 60 
And I will whisper to it such Repentance, 
Such Love, such Fondness, such unheard-of Passion, 
As shall confine it to it's beauteous Mansion. 
Thus let me hug, and press thee into Life, 
And lend thee Motion from my beating Heart, 
To set again the Springs of thine in working. 

Amal. I hear your Summons, and my Life returns: 
But tell me, ere again so firm 'tis fixt 
That it must cost an Agony like this. 



356 The Poems of Anne 

To let it out to Liberty and Ease, 70 

Will you not hate me for my Father's Guilt? 

Aristor. By the soft Fires of Love, that fill my Breast, 
And dart through all the Horrors of my Soul, 
Like Heaven's bright Flashes in a Night of Shadows, 
I will not hate, or e'er reproach thee more: 
Yet let me breathe so gently one Complaint, 
So gently, that it may not break thy Peace, 
Tho' it for ever has discarded mine. 
And ask, why you thus cruelly wou'd use me, 
Why, have me seiz'd, and bound with frantick Fetters, 80 
Snatcli'd from my Duty by a Woman's wile. 
And here confin'd, whilst my great Father perish'd? 

Amal. 'Twas none of mine, by your dear self I swear; 
It was the Fates design and Phila''s action; 
She saw you thus disguis'd amongst the Croud, 
And, ere she would acquaint me with your Danger, 
Follow'd to watch the means how to prevent it. 

Aristoi'. I will believe you to my Heart's relief. 
Which must have broke, had your Consent been with her. 
But, Amalintha, now my Rage is gone, 90 

And Love thro' this mistake has forc'd his way. 
It spreads before my Thoughts the gaudy Scene 
Of those Delights, which have been once allow'd it ; 
Brings to my Phancy in their softest Dress 
The gentle Hours, that told our private Meetings; 
Shews me the Grove, where, by the Moon's pale Light 
We've breath'd out tender Sighs, 'till coming Day 
Has drawn them deeper, warning us to part. 
Which ne'er we did, 'till some new Time was set 
For the return of those transporting Pleasures. 100 

Amal. And so again, Aristor, we'll contrive, 
And so again, we'll meet, and sigh, and love. 

Aristor. Oh! O', O', — Amalintha! 



Countess of Winchilsea 357 

Amal. Oh! why that Groan, that deep, that deathlike 
Groan ! 

Aristo7\ When Soul and Body part, it can't be softer; 
And I must leave thee, Soul to sad Aristor, 
With all those Pleasures which I but repeated. 
As Dying Friends will catch one last Embrace 
Of what they know, they must forego forever. 109 

Amal. Indeed, you've call'd my wand'ring Fancy back 
From those Delights, where 'twou'd have endless stray'd: 
But, my Aristor! (for I'll call you mine, 
Though all the Stars combine against my Title, 
And bar fulfilling of the Vows they've witness' d) 
Tell me, tho' we must ne'er in Nuptials join. 
May we not meet, and at this distance sigh? 
And when I've hoarded up a Stock of Tears, 
Which in the Spartan^ s sight I dare not lavish. 
Oh! tell me, if I may not seek you out. 

And in large Showers thus pour them down before you ? 120 

[*S/ie iveeps. 

Aristor, Cease to oppress me more ; thou weeping Beauty, 
And think with what vast Storms my Soul is toss'd! 

[Comes up to hear earnestly. 
Think too, that but to gaze upon thee thus, 
To stand in reach of thy Ambrosial Breath, 
And hear thy Voice, sweet as the Ev'ning Notes, 
When in still Shades the Shepherds sooth their Loves, 
I wou'd not mind an Army in my way, 
Or stop at raging Seas, or brazen Towers, 
Yet, Amalintha, tho' I Dye to speak it. 
Yet we must part, we must, my Amalinthal 130 

Amal. Never to meet agen? Tell me but that. 

Aristor. Alas! not I, the Fates can only tell it: 
Let them make even one Account betwixt us. 
And give this Hand the Liberty to seal it. 



358 The Poems of Anne 

And we'll in spight of vengeful Thunder join, 
If then, thy Heart be as resolv'd as mine. 

Amal. No: on those Terms you mean, we must not meet: 
But since those Fates deny it to your Power, 
The Will I to your mighty Wrongs forgive, 

[From without the Door. 

Phila. Madam, you'll be surpriz'd; haste to return: 140 
Your Father's now just going to your Lodgings. 

Aristor. All Plagues and Curses meet him! [Aside. 

Amal. Oh ! then I must be gone. 
A little time will call the State to Council; 
And when the Croud by that is thither drawn, 
One I will send to wait on your Escape: 
And if you tempt new Dangers, know Aristor 
That Amalintha too will perish in them. 

Aristor. Fear not, my Love. 

Phila. Haste, Madam, haste, or we are all Undone. 150 

[From without. 

Amal. So from his few short Moments calls away 
A gasping Wretch, the cruel Bird of Prey ; 
Bids him make haste th' Eternal Shades to find, 
And leave like me, all that is Dear behind. 

Aristor. Whilst, like the Friend that's sadly weeping by, 
I see the much lov'd Spirit from me fly; 
And with vain Cries pursue it to that Coast, 
Where it must land, and my weak Hopes be lost. 

[He leads her to the Door, and returns speaking as he's going 
out at the Other. 

Now, let Revenge awhile sustain my Heart, 159 

And Fate yet close my Life with some exalted part! [Exit. 
The Stage darkened represents the Inside of a Dungeon, Aristo- 

menes lying down in it, and struggling as coming out of a 

Sivoon. 

Aristom. At last 'tis vanquish'd; and my soaring Spirits 
Dispel the gloomy Vapours, that oppress'd them. 



Countess of Winchilsea 359 

And cloath'd my Dreams with more than mortal Horrour. 

So low in my deep Phancy was I plung'd, 

That o'er my Head impetuous Rivers rush'd, 

And Mountains grew betwixt our World and me: 

Hungry and Cold, methought I wander' d on 

Thro' fruitless Plains, that Food nor Comfort nourish'd, 

'Till hideous Serpents twisted me about. 

And drew me to their Den all foul and loathsome; 10 

But I will quit the Bed, that breeds such Visions, 

And summon all my Officers to Council ; 

For with to-morrow's Dawn we'll storm Phcerea. 

{He walks about feeling for the Door. 

Ha! where's the Door, my Tent is sure transform'd, 

And all I touch is Rock that streams with Dew. 

Oh! that I'd slept, that I had slept for ever! [iJe starts. 

Yes, Anaxander, yes! thou worst of Furies! 

I know thy Dungeon now, and my dark Ruin: 

Yet why, ye Fates, since fall'n below your Succour, 

Wou'd ye thus cruelly restore my Senses, 20 

To make me count my Woes by tedious Moments, 

Dye o'er again, choak'd by unwholsome Damps, 

Parch'd up with Thirst, or clung with pining Hunger, 

Borne piecemeal to the Holes of lurking Adders, 

Or mould'ring to this Earth, where thus I cast me? 

[Throws himself on the Ground. 

Mustek is heard without the SCENE, after it has play'd awhile 
and ceases, He speaks. 

How, Harmony! nay then the Fiends deride me: 

For who, but they, can strike Earth's sounding Entrails, 

Or with low Winds thus fill her tuneful Pores ? 

Oh! that some Words of horrid Sense wou'd join it, 

To tell me where I might conclude my Sorrows! 30 



360 The Poems of Anne 

A. Voice within Sings. 
1st Voice. Fallen Wretch ! make haste, and Dye ! 
To that last Asylum fly, 
Where no anxious Drops of Care, 
Where no sighing Sorrows are. 
Friends or Fortune none deplore, 
None are Rich, and none are Poor, 
Nor can Fate oppress them more. 
To this last Asylum fly. 

Fallen Wretch ! make haste and Dye ! 39 

[The Voice ceases. 

Aristom. Thou counsell'st rightly; show me but the way, 

And with the Speed thou urgest I'll obey thee. [He rises. 

The Voice Sings again. 

1st Voice. A pointed Rock with little pains 

Will split the Circle of thy Brains. 
To thy Freedom I persuade thee, 
To a wat'ry Pit will lead thee, 
Which has no glorious Sun-beam seen. 
No Footsteep known, or bordering Green, 
For thousand rolling Ages past. 
Fallen Wretch! to this make haste. 
To this last Asylum fly. 50 

Fallen Wretch ! make haste and Dye ! 
Aristom. I come, thou kind Provoker of Despair, 

Which still is nearest Cure, when at the Highest. 

I come, I come — 

Going towards the Voice, another Sings at the other side, upon 
which he stops and listens. 

2d Voice. Stay, oh! stay; 'tis all Delusion, 

And wou'd breed thee more Confusion. 
I, thy better Genius, move thee, 
I, that guard, and I, that love thee; 



Countess of Winchilsea 361 

I, who in thy rocky way, 

Cloth'd in Eagles Feathers lay, 60 

And in safety brought thee down, 

Where none living e'er was known. 

Chearful Hope I bring thee now, 

Chearful Hope the Gods allow. 

Mortal, on their Pleasures wait, 

Nor rush into the arms of Fate. [The Voice ceases. 

Aristom. To hope, is still the Temper of the Brave : 
And tho' a just Despair had dispossess'd it. 
Yet, thus encourag'd, will I trust the Gods 
With those few Moments, Nature has to spare me ; 70 

Nor follow thee, thou bad persuading Spirit. 
Yet tell me, who thou art, and why thou tempt'st me? 

1st Voice. I thy evil Genius am, 

To Phcerea with thee came; 

Hung o'er thee in the murd'ring Croud, 

And clapp'd my dusky Wings aloud; 

Now endeavour'd to deceive thee, 

And will never, never, leave thee. 
2d Voice. I'll protect him from thy Pow'r. 
1st Voice. I shall find a careless Hour. 80 

2d Voice. Laurels He again shall wear. 

War and Honour's Trumpet hear. 
1st Voice. For one fatal, famous Day, 

He his dearest Blood shall pay. 

Hear it ye repeating Stones, 

And confirm it by your Groans! 

[A dismal Gh^oan is heard round the Dungeon. 

Aristom. What all this Bellowing for a Conqueror's 
Death! 
The Field of Honour is his Bed of Ease ; 
He toils for't all the Day of his hard Life, 



362 The Poems of Anne 

And lays liim there at Night, renown' d. and happy: 90 

Therefore this Threat was vain malicious Fury. 
1st Voice. Now away, away I fly; 

For hated Good is rushing by. 

[Here the Voice ceases quite. 
A Machine, like a Fox, runs about the Dungeon smelling, and 
rushes against Aristomenes, who taking it for his evil Genius, 
catches at it, and speaks. 

Aristom. What! hast thou Substance too, and dar'st 
assault me! 
Nay then, thou shalt not 'scape; I'll seize and grapple with 

thee. 
And by my conqu'ring Arm o'ercome thy Influence. 
Fool that I was! to think, it cou'd be vanquisht. 
This is some rav'ning Beast ; the Fur betrays it ; 
A Fox, I think, teach me to be as subtle, 
Extremity, thou Mother of Invention ! \He catches it. 100 
I have it now ; and where it leads, will follow. 
My better Genius do's this Hour preside: 
Be strong that Influence, and thou my Guide. 

[^Exit, led out by the Fox 

The SCENE changes to the Plains by the Woodside. 
Enter from the Wood Herminia alone and faint. 
Herm. Here 'twas she left me ; but so far I've stray'd. 
Unheeding every thing, but my sad Thoughts, 
That my faint Limbs no longer can support me. 
Oh! let me rest; and if 'tis Death I feel, 
A Guest more welcome none yet entertain' d. 

[She sits doivn, leaning against a Tree. 
Enter Climander looking towards the Camp, as expecting the 
returns of Arcasius. 

Clim. He has exceeded much the time prefixt ; 
And yet, I wou'd not doubt him : 
I've climb'd the Hill, better to view the Camp; 



Countess of Winchilsea 363 



And all are fixt, and motionless as Death. 

Therefore awhile I will command my Patience: 10 

He cannot now be long — 

[He turns and sees Harm, and gazes earnestly on her. 
—Ha! Who lies there? 
A lovely Shepherdess; but faint she seems. 
Say, beauteous Maid, if so much Strength is left, 
How best a Stranger, may assist, or serve you! 

[He kneels down by her. 
She do's not speak ; but looks into my Heart, 
And melts it to the softness of her Eyes. 
Hard by, a Spring clear as the Tears she drops, 
Runs bubbling under a delicious Shade: 
Water, thence fetch'd in a Pomegranate's rind, 
May call her fainting Spirits to their office. 20 

[He goes out. 
Herm. He's gone, but quickly will return again; 
Yet he's so gentle sure I need not fear him: 
Tho' at his first approach my Heart beat high, 
'Till Halcijon sounds, and words of Pity calm'd it ; 
Nay, something courtly in them was imply 'd: 
And if the Swains are polish'd, all like him. 
Their humble Sheds may scorn our ruder Greatness. 

Enter again Climander with Water in a Pomgranate- Shell. 

Clim. Pan! if thou e'er did'st hear a Shepherd's Prayer, 
Endue this Water, sacred to thy Name, 

With all the Vertues, needful to restore her. 30 

[She drinks. 

Herm. Your Pray'r is heard; kind Shepherd take my 
Thanks, 
And He, whom you invok'd, reward you largely! 

Clim. Oh! You may far outdo all He can grant, 
In but declaring where you feed your Flocks, 
And to what Shade, when Phcebus hottest shines, 



364 The Poems of Anne 

You lead those happy Sheep, to 'scape his Fury ; 

That I, exposing mine to the wide Plains, 

May seek you out, and sigh till Night before you. 

Herm. Alas ! I have no Flocks, or Skill to guide them ; 
No leafy Hamlet, strew'd with painted Flowers; 40 

Or mossy Pillow, to repose my Head: 
But wander from a distant, fatal Place, 
Where I have lost my Parents, and my Succour, 
And now, in such a Habit as becomes it. 
Seek the low Plains, to learn the Art you practice. 

Clim. She may be Noble then; and for her Form, 
'Tis sure the fairest that my Eyes e'er fix'd on. [Aside. 

Who were your Parents, gentle Maid, declare? 

Herm. They were not mean, and yet I must conceal them : 
My Mother early Dy'd; but Fame has told me, 50 

She'd all Perfections, which make others Proud, 
Yet wore them, as she knew not they adorn'd her. 
And be, in this, my Father's Praise exprest: 
That by an Oracle He was confest 
Of all the Grecian Race to be the Best. 

Clim. The Best of Men! and you the Fairest Woman! 
And in a Moment I the greatest Lover! 

\He speaks this transportedly and seizes her Hand, which he 
kisses. 

Whilst to complete my Bliss, by Heav'ns decree 

These Beauties all are mine, and thus I claim them. 59 

Herm. Protect me all ye Powers, that wait on Virtue, 
From the dark Ends of such unruly Transports ! 

[She takes her Hand away hastily and rises. 
Nor dare, presumptuous Swain, once to renew them, 
Or tempt more Dangers than a Crook can answer! 

Clim. A Man there lives not, shou'd have urg'd that to 
me. 
Built round with Steel, or plung'd all o'er in Styx. 



Countess of Winchilsea 365 

Then, let your Beauty's Triumphs be complete, 
Which, after such a Threat, can bend my Knee, 
And make me sue for Pardon, as for Life. 

Herm. I can forgive, whilst I forbid such Language ; 
Since She, who yields to have her Beauty worshipp'd, 70 
Must pay too much to him, that brings the Incense. 

dim. To Me you cannot, 'tis a Debt to Fate. 
Your Heart is mine ; the amorous Stars ordain it, 
Which smiling, hung o'er my auspicious Birth, 
And not an angry Planet cross'd their Influence: 
They bid me Love, aud the Harmonious God 
When askt, what Path shou'd lead me on to Glory, 
Sent forth a Sound, that charm' d the hoary Priest, 
And said, a Passion, soft as that, must bless me. 
Then, do not strive to disappoint their Purpose, 80 

Or quench Celestial Flames with Scorn or Coldness. 
Oh! that a Smile might tell me, that you wou'd not, 
A gentle Word, a Look, a Sigh confirm it. 
Or any sign, that bears the stamp of Love! 
But 'tis in vain, and some more happy Youth 
Has drawn my Lot, and mock'd foretelling Phcehus. 

Herm. I must not leave you with a Thought that wrongs 
me: 
For know, no Passion e'er possess'd this Breast, 
Nor will the mighty Griefs, that now have seiz'd it, 
E'er yield to give a softer Guest admittance. 90 

But my Companion comes ; Shepherd farewell ! 
When next we meet, if Heav'n that Moment sends, 
For your Assistance lent, we may be Friends. 

Clim. Heav'n can't be true, if it no more affords, 
Nor Oracles explain themselves by Words. 
Let talking Age the Joys of Friendship prove. 
Beauty for Youth was made, and Youth alone for Love. 

[Exeunt severally. 



366 The Poems of Anne 

ACT III SCENE I 
A Myrtle- Grove with a Fountain belonging to Anaxander's 
Palace. 

Enter Amalintha and Phila. 

Amal. Why had not I a barb'rous Spartan Soul, 
Unapt for Love, and harsh, as our rude Customs! 
Or why, ye cruel Fates, did you deny 
My Birth to be among the neighb'ring Swains, 
Where, on the flow'ry Banks of smooth Panisus 
I might have sat, and heard the gentle Vows 
Of some protesting Shepherd, uncontroul'd! 

Phila. 'Twas on those fatal Plains, I well remember, 
That first your Eyes encounter'd with Aristor^s. 

Amal. Yes, in a Chace we met, when Truce allow'd it, 10 
Where the young Prince, whom I too much had mark'd 
Thro' all the graceful Toils of that blest Day, 
Redeem'd my Life, with Hazard of his own. 
From the chas'd Boar, that now had almost seiz'd me. 

Phila. When I arriv'd the first of all your Train, 
I heard you thank him for the gen'rous Rescue. 

Amal. I did; yes Phila, with my Heart I thank'd him, 
And paid it down a Ransom for my Life: 
Since when, how often in this Place we've met. 
And with what Pleasure, thou alone can'st tell, 20 

The only Friend, and witness of our Passion. 
But, prithee go, and keep off all Intruders, [Exit Phila. 

Whilst with my Sorrows now I tread this Grove, 
Which shou'd not thrive, when all our Hopes are blasted. 

[She walks into the Grove. 
From the other Door, the Fox runs over the Stage, followed soon 

after by Aristomenes, his Hands foul with Earth. 

Aristom. Farewell my wild Companion, and my Leader! 

[Pointing to the Fox. 
Henceforth thy figure, in my Ensigns borne. 



Countess of Winchilsea 367 



Shall tell the World (if e^er I 'scape these Walls) 

That 'twas thy Conduct drew me from my Bondage. 

How fair this Grove appears to my loath'd Dungeon! 

[He sees the Fountain. 

Oh! welcome to my Sight, thou gentle Spring! 30 

Ne'er did'st thou cool a Thirst, that rag'd like mine: 

I bow my Knees upon thy mossy Brim, 

[He kneels and lays his Mouth to the Stream. 

And, as they drank, ere Art had worsted Nature, 

Draw thy refreshing Stream to my scorch'd Entrails. 

[Drinks agen. 
Again, O Nectar, most delicious! 

This favour more, and then I quit thy Borders. 

[Washes the Earth off his Hands, and rises. 

Re-enter Amalintha 

Amal. Oh! 'tis all dismal, now that Love is absent. 
Faded the Flow'rs, and with'ring ev'ry Branch: 
Whilst thro' the Leaves the sad, and sighing Winds, 
Me thinks, all say, the Hours of Bliss are past ; 40 

And here, we ne'er shall meet each other more. 

[Aristom. comes towards her 
Ha! what Intruder do my Eyes behold? 
A Stranger, and invade my private Walks, 
The Doors too all secur'd! Tell how you came. 

Aristom. As comes the Mole, by painful working upwards, 
Till the the sweet Air beat on my clammy Brows, 

Amal. There's something mystical in what you utter; 
Which (tho' offended with your Presence here) 

I wou'd be glad farther to have Unriddl'd. 

[Draws her Dagger. 
This be my Guard; and now you may proceed, 50 

And, if you dare, discover who you are. 

Aristom. I'd not deny my Name, to 'scape that Dungeon, 

[Pointing behind the Scenes. 



368 The Poems of Anne 



From whence these Hands have dug my way to Light. 
'Tis Aristomenes that stands before you. 

Amal. O blest and strange Surprise! [Aside- 

Aristom. Now, if you have a Soul for noble Deeds, 
As 'tis reported of you Spartan Ladies, 
By my Escape your Fame shall rise so high, 
That ne'er an ancient Heroes shall outsoar it: 
If not, I know the Place from whence I came, 60 

And 'twill be told with more uncommon Things, 
Which shall make up the Story of my Fortunes, 
That I alone liv'd to be there twice Bury'd. [She looks about. 
Nay, look not round ; for if you fear you wrong me, 
I wou'd not injure you, to gain my Safety. 

Amal. Nor wou'd I fail to help you to secure it, 
For all that Lacedemon holds most Precious. 
I gaz'd about, lest any were in sight, 
That might prevent my dear Design to save you. 
Support me, as I walk, like one that serv'd me, 70 

And when they have unlock' d that Postern-door, 
I'll give you some Command before the Guard, 
Which to perform they shall admit your Passage : 
Or this must force it, if your evil Stars 

[Gives him her Dagger. 

Have plac'd such there, as know and wou'd detain you. 

Aristom. As long as Life, I'll proudly wear this Favour. 

Amal. Oh ! haste, my Lord, lose not this precious moment. 

Aristom. No, stay ; and ere I take one step tow'rds Free- 
dom, 
Let me be told, to whose blest Aid I owe it ; 
And how I may discharge so vast a Debt: 80 

Tho' I, and all that's dear to me shou'd perish, 
I wou'd not stir, 'till satisfy'd in this. 

Amal. Know then, my Lord — 
Tho' whilst I speak, I tremble for your Danger, 



Countess of Winchilsea 369 



That to declare my Name, might work my Ruin: 

But since such Gratitude crowns your great Virtues, 

I have a Blessing to implore from you. 

When the full Time shall ripen and reveal it ; 

Harder, I fear, to grant, and much more dear 

Than what I now assist you to preserve, 90 

Aristom. By Liberty, which none like me can value, 
By new-recovered Light, and what it shews me. 
Your brighter Form, with yet a fairer Mind, 
By all the ties of Honour, here I swear ; 
Be that untouch'd, and your Request is granted. 

Amal. Of you, my Lord, and of the list'ning Gods 
I ask no more — but, that you haste to 'scape : 
Without that Gate the open Champain lies. 
May Fortune, which the hardest Part has done, 
Crown her great Work, and lead you safely on! 100 

[Exit Aristom. leading her. 
Enter Phila iveeping. 

Phila. What shall I say, or how reveal this to her? 
Is't not enough, ye Gods, we bear our own. 
That thus you suffer the vain trifler Love 
To bring the Griefs of others too upon us! 
Amalintha returns. 

Amal. Oh! Phila, I such Tydings have to tell thee, 
But thou hast chill'd them in a Moments space 
With that cold dew that trickles from thine Eyes. 
Is not Aristor safe? — 

Thou say'st he is not, in that weeping silence: 
But lives he yet? if this thou do'st not answer, 110 

My Death shall free thee from all farther Questions. 

Phila. Yet he do's live: 
But oh! that some free Tongue, that lov'd you less, 
Cou'd tell how little time that Life must last 
To you so precious, and I fear so fatal! 



370 The Poems of Anne 

Amal. Go on ; and if thou kill'st me with the Story, 
Believe thou'st crown'd the Kindness of thy Life, 
By giving endless Rest to her that wants it. 

Phila. I cannot speak [Weeping. 

Amal. Then one, that can, I instantly must seek for, 120 

[Going out. 

Phila. Publick Enquiry pulls his Ruin on her. 

Stay, Madam, stay, and since it must be told. 

Know that Aristor, soon as free to do it, 

Again into your Father's presence rush'd, 

And makes a new attempt upon his Person, 

But miss'd his Blow, was seiz'd, and in Confinement 

Now waits but the assembling of the Council, 

Throughly to be examin'd, and discover'd. 

Amal. Darkness, and Night surround me. 

With this Relief to my sad Bed I go, 130 

[Siezes Phila's Dagger. 

There wrapt in horrid Shades will lay me down, 

And, when thou com'st charg'd with the heavy News, 

Beware, no tedious Circumstance detain. 

No fruitless Pray'r, or word of Comfort 'scape thee; 

But with a Voice, such as the Dying use. 

Bid me expire — 

— Then to my Father go, 

And say, he kill'd his Daughter in his Foe ; 

Who knowing, she his Temper cou'd not move, 140 

Th' excess of Hate paid with th' excess of Love. 

[Exit iveeping and leaning on Phila. 

The SCENE changes to the Plains. 
Enter Climander. 
Clim. All Patience this wou'd tire — 
I will not wait the Trifler's slow return. 
But go my self (tho' thus unarm' d) amongst them. 

[He is going and meets Arcasius. 



Countess of Winchilsea 371 

Art thou at length come back! 

If 'twou'd not waste more time to blame thy stay, 

Old loit'ring Man! I shou'd reprove thee for it. 

Areas. 'Twas vain to move, 'till I had seen the utmost, 

CUm. The utmost! What was that, will they not Fight? 
Not Dye for such a General! 

A7^cas. My Lord, they will not — 10 

Tho' brave Alcander tries to urge their Fury, 
And wastes his own, to put new Life into them: 
Sometimes he weeps, and throws his Helmet from him. 
Kneels to his Troops, and wooes them to Compassion, 
Which draws a gen'ral sympathizing Show'r, 
And makes him think, he has obtain'd his Purpose: 
Then on his fiery Steed in haste he leaps. 
And cries, Come on; but not an Ensign waves, 
Or any Motion seconds the Design. 

The Meaner sort cry out aloud for Pay, 20 

And mutiny to be discharg'd the Service, 

dim. Base, mercenary Slaves! Yet these I'll use: 
The Gold and Jewels which my Father gave. 
Will fire their Souls, insensible of Duty; 
And by it's aid, I'll gain what most I thirst for. 
A king his Claim but to one Kingdom lays. 
Wide as the Universe is boundless Praise. 
This shining Mass shall buy a glorious Name, 
They purchase all the World, who purchase Fame. 

[He is going. 

Areas. Since you're determin'd to attempt these Dangers, 
Let me declare the Time to be expir'd, 31 

Which bound you in your Promise to your Father: 
By Artifice I wrought you to believe 
Those Days remain'd, which are indeed run out. 
Your Soul may now be free, and Heaven protect you! 

Cli'm. For this discov'ry I'll return another 



372 The Poems of Anne 

Worthy thy knowledge, when we meet again: 

But now make haste, and from its deep concealment, 

In the low Earth, fetch me the Wealth I mention'd. 

About these Woods thy quick Return shall find me. 40 

[Exeunt. 
Enter Herminia and Barina. 

Bar. See we are come to soon; I said 'twou'd prove so. 

Herm. It is no matter, long we shall not wait. 

[Bar. looks out for the Shepherds. 
I dare not tell her, that I like this Shepherd, 
Nor yet indeed scarce own it to my self. 
'Tis strange, my Mind shou'd sink thus with my Fortunes; 
Yet he did talk above their humble strain. 
And, as he knew that Nature had supply'd 
What Fortune had deny'd him for Attraction, 
Claim'd my weak Heart, and said he must possess it. 

Bar. Sure, they've put off this melancholy Meeting 50 
Design'd in Honour of their lost Protector, 
In which our share (tho' secret) must be greatest. 
I see none move, nor hear their mournful Notes. 

Herm. Be not impatient: Where can we be better? 
Have I not heard thee say sometimes, Barina, 
That in a Dream, form'd by the Day's discourse 
Of the sweet Life, that here they led in safety, 
My Mother saw me wed one of these Swains, 
And smil'd, tho' I had made a Choice below me? 

Bar. She did; and therefore never wou'd consent 60 

That you, like others, shou'd behold their Revels: 
Nor have I, since her Death left you my Charge, 
Allow'd it, till worse Dangers forc'd us hither; 
Tho' of myself, I ne'er observe such Trifles, 

Herm. D'ye call those nightly Visions then but Trifles? 

Ba7\ No doubt our Dreams are so; the work of Phancy, 
Where things of Yesterday are odly piec'd 



Countess op Winchilsea 373 

With what had pass'd some twenty Years before, 

Knit in a weak and disproportion'd Chain, 

Which cannot hold to lead us to the Future. 70 

Whate'er I've said, I wish this had no meaning, [Aside. 

And that some other Place cou'd give us shelter. 

Herm. We'll walk a while — 
Great Aristomenes, now cou'd I meet thee! 
But that's a Blessing which I must not know, [Aside. 

'Till where thine is, my Spirit too shall go. 
Oh! that my Grief wou'd force it to retire. 
And Tears for him quench this new-kindl'd Fire! 

[They go off the Stage. 

Enter at the other Door Climander. 
Clim. Either my Eyes, indulgent to my Love, 
Deceive my Hopes; or now, within their reach 80 

That unknown Beauty moves, which lately charm'd them. 
'Tis she! and with the speed that suits my Passion, 
I will o'ertake, and farther urge it to her. [Exit. 

Re-enter Herminia, 
Herm. She fears my Fate and fain wou'd have me go. 
Before th' assembling Shepherds are arriv'd; 
And having met one that can give her tydings. 
Is busy to enquire about their coming. 
Untimely Caution! — 

— 'Tis too late to move. 
When once o'ertaken by the wings of Love. 

Enter Climander behind her. 
Clim. From those fair Lips no sooner fell that word, 
But all the neighb'ring Ecchoes caught the Sound, 91 

And sent it doubl'd to Climander'' s Bosom: 
The am'rous Streams have borne it down their Banks, 
And the glad Plains breathe nothing, since, but Love. 
Oh! speak it once again, and the fond Vine 



374 The Poems of Anne 

Shall with a stricter grasp embrace the Elm, 
Whilst joyf al Birds shall hail it from the Branches. 

Herm. No; I have spoke too much — 
Since on these Plains no syllable is secret. 
Hereafter my close thoughts shall be conj&n'd, 100 

And in this Breast lock'd up from all Men's Knowledge. 

Clim. Oh! not if Love be there; it cannot be: 
Silence can ne'er last long, nor yet conceal it, 
A thousand ways 'twill speak without a Voice, 
And, whilst it struggles to obtain that Freedom, 
Betraying Sighs will 'scape, and more declare it; 
'Twill speak in list'ning to the Lover's Tale, 
And say, 'tis Sympathy that makes it pleasant. 

Herm. He shakes my Soul, whilst thus he do's describe it: 
For all he speaks I feel, and he must find. {Aside. 110 

Oh! yet, let me reflect upon my Birth, 
And quit, in time, the Ground I can't maintain! 

[She's going. 

Clim. Nay, do not fly me, and I will be Speechless: 
For if I speak, whilst on your Eyes I gaze. 
It must be all of Love, and that offends you; 
Yet since, perhaps, I ne'er may meet you more, 
I wou'd have told the Story of my Heart, 
And e'er it breaks, have mov'd you to Compassion. 

Herm. Meet him no more! then, what can Crowns afford 
me. 
Amidst the noisie Pomp, that waits their Lustre ? 120 

Still shou'd I vainly listen for the Sound [Aside. 

Of such soft Words which charm my Sorrows from me. 
Oh! that our Births were equal, as our Thoughts! 
Yet I will pity him, and Fate be guilty. 

[She stops and turns towards him. 

Clim. Blest be the Thought, that thus retards your steps, 
And turns again those gentle Lights upon me! 



Countess of Winchilsea 375 

If Pity 'twas; Oh! yet indulge that warmth, 
And Love 'twill soon produce, to meet my Wishes. 

[She looks kindly on him. 
'Tis done, 'tis done ! be witness ye still skies, 
That all her Looks are calm, and smooth as yours, 130 

And not one Frown forbids my forward Hopes: 
Let this fair Hand be added to confirm them, 
And ease the mighty longings of my Passion. 

[Kneels and kisses her Hand. 

Herm. Take, freely take this first and last of Favours. 
Now, Shepherd rise, and hear what I've to say ; 
And if a Sigh mix with the fatal Sentence, 
Believe, 'tis from the Grief, with which I give it. 
You must not love me — [She sighs. 

Clim. I must not love you, tho' you Sigh to speak it! 
Shou'd Pan pronounce it, in a Voice so loud 140 

'Twou'd rive the knotty Oaks, that shade his Altars, 
I wou'd to Syrinxes oppose your Beauties, 
And ask the Gods, whose Loves had best Foundation? 

Herm. Those Gods, who made our Births so dispropor- 
tion'd, 
Wou'd say, they ne'er design'd our Hands shou'd join. 
But see! the Swains are gath'ring tow'rds this Place: 
Yet, Shepherd, know, that if a Prince wou'd Love, 
'Tis in your Form he must successful prove. 

Enter Arcasius with a Casket. 
Clim. Then in this happy Form, since you approve it. 
Behold — [She interrupts him. 150 

Herm. No more! as you wou'd keep th' Esteem I've 
shown you. [Exit. 

Clim. Another time must tell this Secret to her. 
Th' Ambition of her Mind charms like her Person, [Aside. 
Nor can the Blood, that breeds such Thoughts be abject. 



376 The Poems of Anne 

But welcome good Aj^casius with that Bait, 

Which shall be soon dispers'd among the Soldiers: 

And if it win them to my great Design, 

'Tis worth the Kingdoms which its Price might ransom. 

[Exeunt ivith the Casket follow'' d by Arcasius. 

Enter Thaeta and Lamia. 

Lamia. The Dews are falling, and the Sun declin'd. 
Whilst from this neighb'ring Grove are heard the Notes 160 
Of that sweet Bird, that warbles to the Night, 
Now telling us her Shadows are approaching: 
And yet the tardy Shepherds are not come. 

Thceta. When all our Hours were gay, it was not thus: 
But who can haste to break his chearful Pipe, 
Tear the sweet Garland, made by her he sighs for, 
And sing of Death, when Love is all his Passion? 

Lamia. Now thou dost talk of Love, yet ere we part, 
Or fall into our melancholy Strains, 

Lend to that Eccho, greedy of thy Voice, 170 

Some moving Words, upon so soft a subject. 

Tha^ta. Rather that Song I'd chuse, which do's prefer 
To all things else the Joys of these sweet Plains; 
Since, now perhaps, we must too soon forsake them. 

Lamia. A better can't be chose ; haste to perform it. 
Lest the sad Ceremony break our purpose. 

THE SONG. 

(1.) 
S'^e Si7igs A young Shepherd his Life, 
In soft Pleasure still leads, 
Tunes his Voice to his Reed, 

And makes Love in the Shades. 180 

To be Great, to be Wise, 
To be Rich, to be Proud, 



Countess of Winchilsea 377 

To be loaded with Bus'ness 

Or lost in a Croud, 
He ne'er seeks, or desires: 

Let but Silvia be won, 
He is Great, he is Rich, 

And his Bus'ness is done. 

(2.) 
Whilst their Nymphs are as happy, 

As Happy as Fair; 190 

For who has most Beauty, 

Has of Lovers most share. 
Some will stay, some will fly. 

Some be false, some be true: 
For the Lost we ne'er grieve. 

But still cherish the New. IShotits. 

'Tis vain of their Frailties, 

Or Falshoods to mind 'em: 
Mankind we must take. 

We must take, as we find 'em. 200 

Thceta. What Shouts are these! [^Shouts. 

Lamia. They're loud, and speak some Joy; and still 
repeated. 

Enter Herminia and Barina. 

Lamia. Fair Stranger, know you whence these Shouts 

proceed ? 
Herm. I do not; but these coming, sure, can tell us. 

Enter with great Signs of Joy Clinias with other Shepherds and 
Shepherdesses, &c. 

Clim. Swell, swell, Panisus, o'er thy spacious Bounds, 
Flow like our Joy, and chear the Meads about thee. 
Pan, take in thankful Sacrifice ; our Flocks, 
And ev'ry rural Swain proclaim his Praises ! 

Lamia. Such Sounds, as these, meet with a gen'ral welcome : 



378 The Poems of Anne 

But yet, the Cause we wish to hear explain'd. 210 

Good Clinias, tell the Cause — 

Clin. He is return'd, and stands, like Fate, amongst 'em. 
The Plain's Protector, and the Army's Genius, 
The Virgin's Refuge, when the Town's in Flames, 
And Shield to those whom Fortune makes his Vassals. 

Herm. 'Tis Aristomenes thou hast described: 
No other e'er cou'd fill a Praise like this. 

Clin. 'Tis He indeed, next to the Gods, our Succour. 

Herm. Transporting News ! how did the Army meet him ? 

Clin. Just as a long stopt Current meets the Sea, 220 

And rushes on, when once't has forced a Passage. 

2d Shep. Heav'n has their Plumes ; for high as that they 
toss 'em: 
And not a dusty Soldier in the Host, 
That has not hugged him to his swarthy Bosom. 

Clin. No Voice is what it was an Hour ago; 
And their hoarse Joy sounds like their distant Drums; 
His Hands, as if the Cretan Thongs still held them. 
Are useless made, and fetter'd now with Kisses; 
Whilst neighing Steeds think that the War surrounds them. 
And prance in Air light as their Master's Minds. 230 

2d Shep. How he escap'd, all ask in such Confusion, 
That their loud Questions drive his Answers back. 
And will not let them reach the nearest to him. 

Herm. It is enough, ye Powers that guard Messenia! 
We now must change our Habits, and return. [^Aside to Bar. 
What did I say, return! O yes! I must. 

And never hope to see Climander more: \To herself. 

Yet will I give my Heart this last Relief 
(Since Fate will have it bear th' unequal Passion) 
To let him know my Love, and endless Flight, 240 

And live on the dear Thought that he laments it. 

\^Exit with Bar. 



Countess of Winchilsea 379 

Lam. Where is Aristor? Is he too return'd? 
Clin. That question did the Gen'ral ask aloud; 
And 'twas the only one that cou'd be heard: 
But no reply was made ; I think he is not, 
Theata. Then we're but half restor'd — 
For he so heavily will take that Loss, 
Our Joys will not be long, nor he amongst us. 
Lamia. Fear not the worst — 

2d Shep. I met a rumour of a stranger Prince, 250 

That with large Sums new fir'd the trembling Host, 
And from the Camp had led on some Design 
A Party, that for Wealth wou'd risque their Lives, 
Tho' cold and dull to Thoughts of gen'rous Duty. 

Clin. 'Tis true; of Rhodes they say. 
And some I heard that call'd him Demagetus. 
Thick flew his Gold, as swarms of Summer-Bees, 
And 'twas to succor or revenge the Gen'ral. 
He ask'd their Aid — 

But whither he has led them, none can tell. 260 

Ere Aristomes return'd, he went 
And is not heard of since. 

2d Sliep. The Gen'ral's safe, and that 's enough for us: 
Now therefore Clinias, you that guide our Sports, 
Tell us what we're to do to shew our Joy. 

Clin. To Laugh, to Sing, to Dance, to Play, 
To rise with new appearing Day ; 
And ere the Sun has kiss'd 'em dry, 
With various Rubans Nosegays tye. 
Deckt with Flow'rs and cloath'd in Green, 270 

Ev'ry Shepherdess be seen: 
Ev'ry Swain with Heart and Voice 
Meet him, meet him, and rejoice: 
With redoubl'd Pceans sing him. 
To the Plains, in Triumph bring him: 



380 The Poems of Anne 

And let Pan and Mars agree, 

That none's so kind and brave as He. {^Exeunt. 

ACT IV SCENE I 

The General's Pavilion. 

Enter Brest in the Habit of an Officer Demagetus ivith Arcasius. 

Dema. Sh' has left the Plains, and is not to be found. 
How cou'd'st thou bring this cruel Story to me. 
Ere thou had'st search'd Messenia's, utmost Bound, 
And travelPd o'er the spacious World of Shepherds? 
She must be yet amongst their Shades conceal'd ; 
And thro' them will I pierce, like prying Phoebus, 
To find my Love, or lose myself for ever. 

Area. You will not hear (so much your Passion sways) 
The Reasons, why I chose to see you first, 
Ere I proceeded to pursue her Paths. 10 

Dema. There spoke the sixty Winters, that have froze 
thee, 
And turn'd swift eager Love to Icy Reasons. 
I must be Cold as thou art, if I hear thee, 
Or lose one moment more in doating Questions. [He's going. 

Area. Behold these Tokens, and let them retard you. 

Dema. Tokens of Love, sent to the fond CUmander. 
Oh ! thou hast found a way indeed to stay me. 

Area. Take that, to you directed ; [a Letter. 

And 'twas my Hopes from thence of some discovery, 
That kept me here 'till you had broke and read it. 20 

Dema. Then thou shalt hear it. [Reads the Direction. 

This to Climander/ro?w theNymph that leaves him 
To everlasting Grief, shou'd have been added. 
For so 'twill prove, if no more Comfort's here. [He reads it. 
To love, yet from the Object fly, 
Harder is, than 'tis to Dye: 



Countess of Winchilsea 381 



Yet, for ever I remove, 

Yet, for ever will I love. 

Shepherd, seek no more to find ; 

Fate, not I, has been Unkind. 30 

We pluck on Fate, by striving to avoid it. 
To shun the low Addresses of a Swain, 
For ever has she left a Prince despairing. 
Why didst thou not, as I at parting bid thee. 
Find out, and let her know my fair Intentions, 
And that my Birth was Noble as her Wishes? 

Area. I was not negligent, nor wou'd be thought so: 
But full of Transports when I heard your Story, 
Thinking the Fates wou'd now fulfill their Promise 
Thro' her the Daughter to the best of Men, 40 

Fled to discover what you gave in Charge, 
Travers'd the Plains in a long fruitless Search, 
But cou'd not find that Beauty born to Bless us. 

Dema. I shew'd thee, as we pass'd, her new rais'd Hamlet. 
Area. Thither at last I went, but Oh! too late: 
For ere I reach'd it, the fair Guest was vanish'd; 
Upon the Floor lay her neglected Hook, 
And o'er the Door hung Boughs of fading Willow, 
To shew, as Shepherds use, the Place forsaken. 
That Paper there I found, and near it lay 50 

This precious Gemm, that bears a well-cut Signet, 

[^Shews him a Ring, 
By chance sure dropt, yet may assist your Purpose. 

Dema. Give me that Emblem of my fatal Passion: 
For without End is that, as is this Circle. 
Oh ! that my way to Bliss shou'd seem so plain. 
Yet in a moment thus be lost and wilder'd! 
Now in the midst of Crouds and loud Applauses, 
That greet me for restoring them Aristor, 
Must wretched Demagetus sigh for Love, 



382 The Poems of Anne 

And hang his drooping Head tho' wreathed with Laurels. 

[A sound of Drums and Trumpets. 
But hark! the Gen'ral comes — 
To him the Oracle I have reveal'd, 
And all the Story of my rural Life. 
I'll tell him too the Cause of my new Grief, 
Which to relieve, I instantly must leave him. 

A FLOURISH. 

Enter Aristomenes, Aristor, Alcander, and other Attendants. 

Aristom. Why, Demagetiis, art thou from my Sight, 

From these fond Arms, that ever thus would hold thee ! 

[^Embracing him. 
Thou kind Restorer of my lov'd Aristor. 

Come to the Camp, and hear them shout thy Name, 

Whilst I declare thee equal in Command 70 

With him, who owes his Life to thy young Valour. 

Dema. Alas! my Lord — 

Aristom. A Soldier sigh, when courting Fame attends him! 
I know you Love, by your own kind Confession: 
But that too must succeed, since now your Birth 
Is known to answer all the great Desires, 
Which, to my Wonder, did possess the Breast 
Of that fair rural Maid, whose Beauty charm'd you. 
We'll send, and with the Pomp that suits a Princess, 
(Since such your gen'rous Passion means to make her) 80 
Have her conducted to a rich Pavilion, 
And join your Hands, as Heav'n has join'd your Hearts. 
This, my Aristor, be your pleasing Task. 

Enter an Attendant to Aristomenes. 

Attend. The Princess is without, and waits your Pleasure. 
Aristom. Conduct her in — 
I sent for her, to see the generous Stranger. [To Alcander. 



Countess of Winchilsea 383 



Enter behind the Company Herminia and Barina. 

Aristor. My Lord, what you command I take in charge. 

[To Aristomenes. 
Tell me, my best of Friends, the way to serve you. 

[To Demagetus. 

Dema. I know it not my self, and that's the Torture. 
Hear me, my Lord, nor think my Sorrows light: 90 

[To Aristomenes. 
For Love, the only Comfort of fond Youth, 
Is lost for ever to the poor Climander. 

Herm. Climander — [To Bai'ina. 

That Name and Voice bears down my fainting Spirits. 
I shall be known, yet have not Strength to fly : 
Where will this end, and where's Herminia'^ Honour. 

[To herself. 

Ay'istom. So sad a Pause still keeps us in Suspence: 
Proceed, and if there's help on Earth, we'll find it. 

Dema. At my return, made joyful by Success, 
With hasty Steps, and in my Heart soft Wishes, 100 

Love, and a thousand flatt'ring Expectations, 
I fled the clam'rous Praise prepar'd to meet me, 
And sought the Path that led to my Desires: 
But ere I was advanc'd beyond the Camp, 
The Voice of this Old Man 
Cross'd my sad way, and cry'd, She's gone for ever. 

Aristom. Perhaps 'tis some Mistake, 
If other Proofs are wanting to confirm it. 

Dema. Oh ! far too many for Climander''^ Peace. 
She own'd her Love, and with this Signet bound it, 110 

And in the Folds of this dear Paper left 
At once the tokens of my Joy and Ruin. 

[Gives the Letter and Ring to Aristomenes. 

Herm. The Character and Signet will betray me ; 
And now Necessity must make me Bold. [Aside. 



384 The Poems of Anne 

Oh! yet, ere you proceed to view that Paper, 

[She throws herself at Aristomenes Feet. 
(Wrapt in Confusion) hear your Daughter speak, 

[As he is opening the Letter. 
And pity in her Fate all Women's Frailty. 

Aristom. Ha! Thou dost much surprize me; but go on, 
And, 'till she has finish'd, let no Word be utter'd, 

Dema. By all my fleeting Sorrows 'tis my Love: 120 

Nor cou'd I, but to hear her speak, be Silent. [Aside. 

Aristom. Proceed, and 'bate those Tears, that stay thy 
Speech. 

Herm . That I have stoop'd below the Blood you gave me, 
And cast my doating Love upon that Shepherd, 
(For such he is, altho' a Plume adorns him) 
My wretched Hand, and now my Tongue confesses : 
For by that Paper, indiscreetly penn'd. 
The Secret wou'd be told, shou'd I conceal it. 
But Oh ! my Lord, since you can ne'er forgive me ; 
A sad Recluse for ever let me live, 130 

Or Dye for Love, to do my Birth more Justice. 

Aristom. Be comforted, and farther yet unfold 
How first you came acquainted with this Shepherd. 

Herm. To 'scape the Fury of prevailing Foes, 
Disguised, I in your absence sought the Plains, 
And in that Habit heard the pow'rful Sighs 
Of one that knew not then his own Presumption. 

Aristom. Were he a Prince, and still would urge his Suit 
Wou'd'st thou receive 't, and bless the Pow'rs that sent him ? 

Herm. I shou'd not hide my Thoughts, or blush to own 
them. 140 

Yes, I cou'd bless those Pow'rs which now undo me. 

[Demagetus comes forivard. 

Demag. I cannot wait these Forms ; Love plead my Par- 
don, 



Countess of Winchilsea 385 



When, Sir, I disobey your order'd Silence, 
And haste to tell her 'tis a Prince adores her. 
That wou'd have sought her on the lowly Plains, 
And for her Favour quitted all Dominion. 

Aristom. Then take her, thou most worthy Prince of 
Rhodes! [Giving her to him. 

And know, Herminia, to encrease thy Passion, 
Thou hold'st that noble Hand, that sav'd thy Brother, 
And gives thy Father in this new Alliance, 
More Joy than when he first receiv'd and bless'd thee. 150 

Dcma. Let all the Joys of Earth give place to mine. 
Whilst in deep, silent Raptures I possess them : 

[^Taking her from Aristomenes. 
For Demagetus is above Discourse, 
And will not wrong his Love with faint Expressions. 

Herm. So let mine flow, and O Bai'ina, see 
I smiling give my Hand now to a Shepherd, 
Yet fear not to offend my Mother's Ghost. 

Bar. No ; that smiles too, and all that love and serve you. 

Area. The Fate of Rhodes is clear and chearful now; 
And old Arcasiiis has outliv'd his Cares. 160 

Aristor. Now as a Brother, take this new Embrace; 

[To Demagetus. 
Tho' all the Love, it shews, you had before. 

Aristom. Conduct her, Demagetus, to her Tent: 

I'll soon be there, and see those Rites perform'd, 

That shall confirm her Yours; be Kind and Happy. 

{Exeunt Herminia and Demagetus leading her folloiv'd by 
Arcasius, Bariua and others. Aristor is going too but is 
calVd back by his Father. 

Come back Aristor, and the rest withdraw: 
For something I wou'd say to you in private. 

{The Attendants go off. 
Free from the Croud, and unobserv'd my Transports, 



386 The Poems of Anne 

I wou'd embrace, and welcome thee to Life, 

And with a loud repeated Blessing pay 170 

The pious Care, that brought it to such Dangers. 

Oh! that the Love of Women shou'd be thought 

To pass the Fondness which a Father feels, 

When thus he grasps a Son of thy Perfections, 

[Embracing him. 
My Dear, my Lov'd Aristor! 

Aristor. My Prince, my Gen'ral, and the Best of Fathers ! 

Aristom. Thy Heart speaks loud, and knocking at my 
Breast 
Seems as 'twould close in conference with mine. 

Aristor. It would, my Lord, and strives to force its Passage. 
[Aristomenes looses his Arms from embracing him. 

Aristom. Oh, no my Son! for now I must be plain, 180 
And tell thee, thou dost lock some Secret there 
Which all my depth of Kindness ne'er could fathom: 
I see it in the Cloud, that shades thy Brow. 
And still thy pensive Eyes are downwards cast, 
As thou wou'd'st seek the Grave, or something lower: 
Long have I this observed — 

And thought whole Nights away to find the Cause, 
Which now, my Son, I urge thee to reveal: 
And think that He who best can love thee asks it. 

Aristor. Oh ! that you did not love, or would not ask it ! 
I cannot speak, for speaking must ofPend: 191 

Yet shou'd my Silence grieve such mighty Goodness, 
'Twou'd break that Heart, which thus you seek to succour. 
Upon my Knees a strange Request I make, 

[Offering to Kneel but his Father takes him up. 
That you would quite forget and think me Dead ; 
Which the approaching Battle shou'd confirm, 
And leave you to possess your other Comforts. 

Aristom. My other Comforts! All are light to Thee: 



Countess of Winchilsea 387 



And when I would have shar'd amongst my Eace 

Impartial Kindness, as their Birthrights claim'd, 200 

Still to my Heart Aristor wou'd be nearest, 

Still, with a Merit not to be withstood, 

Wou'd press beyond my cool and equal Purpose, 

And seize a double Portion of my Love : 

And wilt thou lose it now, to keep thy Silence ? 

Aristor. My Life I rather wou'd; but Oh! my Lord! [Sighs. 

A^Hstom. Another Sigh, another yet, my Son ! 
And then, let Words relieve this mighty Passion: 
They will, they will; the Sweetness of thy Temper 
Will melt before a just and warm Persuasion. 210 

Now, let me know it — 

Ai'istor. Believe that if 'twere fit, it shou'd be told: 
But Oh ! my Lord, 'tis what you must not know, 

Aristom. Not I, Aristor! if thy Soul were bare 
As is thy faded Cheek now to thy Father, 
It were most fit — 

Oh! think, my Son, who 'twas that made it Noble, 
And train'd it in the Paths of Truth and Honour: 
Else, what had hinder'd, but thou might'st have been 
(In spite of all the Virtues with thee born, 220 

For Education is the stronger Nature) 
A bragging Coward, or a base Detractor, 
A Slave to Wealth, or false to Faith or Friendship 
Lull'd in the common Arms of some Seducer, 
And lost to all the Joys of Virtuous Love. 

Aristor. Ha! Virtuous Love! 

Aristom. What, dost thou start? why, so I meant thou 
shou'dst. 
When hastily I press'd that Word upon thee, 
To catch that flushing Witness in thy Face, 
Was all this Bait contriv'd; no more, my Son, 230 

No more dissembling of a Truth so plain: 



388 The Poems of Anne 

I see 'tis Love, the best of all our Passions. 

And fram'd like Thee ; sure none cou'd e'er Despair, 

Nor can I fear thou'd'st make a vulgar Choice. 

Aristor. On Idci's Top not Paris made a nobler. 
When of three Goddesses he chose the Fairest. 

Aristom. Will she not hear thy Love? 

Aristor. Oh yes ! with all the softness of her Sex, 
And answers it with Vows, more strong than Ours. 

Aristom. If thus it be, what hast thou then to fear? 240 

Aristor. A Father's Wrath, more dreadful to Aristor 
Than is the frown of Jove, that shakes the Poles, 
And makes the Gods forget they are Immortal. 

Aristom. Thou wrong' st my Love in that mistaken Terror. 
By all those Powers I swear, I will not cross thee ; 
Be she a Spartan Dame, 'bate me but One, 
And tho' a Foe, I yield thou shou'd'st possess her. 

Aristor. I dare not ask; my trembling Love forbids it. 
Who is that One, so fatally excepted ? 

Aristom. Then, I'll by telling thee prevent that Trouble. 
It is the Tyrant Anaxander''^ Daughter, 251 

Whom, tho' I ne'er beheld, I must abhor. 
As borrowing her Blood from such a Fountain. 

Aristor. Take mine, my Lord, then to wash out that 
Stain [^Offers his Breast. 

You'll think it has contracted by her Love: 
For 'tis that Tyrant's Daughter I adore. 
And ne'er, while Life is here, will change my Purpose. 

Aristom. Confusion seize those Words, and Her that caus'd 
'em! 
Not Groans of Earthquakes, or the Burst of Thunder, 
The Voice of Storms urging the dang'rous Billows, 260 

E'er struck the Sense with sounds of so much Horror. 
It must not, Oh! it must not, shall not be: 
Sooner this Dagger, tho' my Soul lives in thee, 

{^Drawing Amalintha's Dagger. 



Countess of Winchilsea 389 

Shou'd let out thine with this prepost'rous Passion, 
Than I wou'd yield, it e'er shou'd meet Success. 

Arisfor. Of all the Instruments by Aulcan form'd. 
That Poinard best is fitted to my Heart, 
Since Her's it was, whose Eyes have deeper pierc'd it : 
Quickly, my Lord, let me receive it here, 
And see me proud in Death to wear that Favour. 270 

[Aristomenes amaz'd looks on the Dagger, and speaks to 
himself. 

Arisiom This Dagger Her's, this Anaxander'Q Daughter's ! 
Fate then is practicing upon my Soul 
What sudden Turns and Tryals Man can bear. 

Aristor. Oh! do not pause — 
Lest fainting with the Weight of what I feel, 
I poorly fall, unlike your Son or Soldier. 

Aristom. If this were Her's, Her's were the grateful Vows, 
With which I rashly charg'd the Life she gave me. 

[^Still to himself. 

Aristor. Ha! not a Look, not one sad parting Word! 
Then my own Hand thus sets me free for ever. 280 

[Offers to Stab himself, but is stay'd by Aristomenes. 

Aristom. Hold! by Love and Duty yet a moment hold! 

Aristor. My Life they've sway'd, and must command a 
Moment 
But let it not exceed, lest both I cancel. 
And only listen to my wild Despair. 

Aristom. Shall I perform them? shall I hear her plead? 
And to a Woman's Claim resign my Vengeance? 
No; let my Ear still fly the fatal Suit, 
And from her Tears be turn'd my harden'd Face. 
What did I say ! a hasty Blush has seized it. 
For but imagfining a Thins: so vile. 290 

Turn back my Face from Her that shunn'd not mine, 
When it was Death to know, and to preserve me! 



390 The Poems op Anne 

No; let the Fiends be obstinate in 111, 

Revenge be their's, while Godlike Man is grateful. 

Enter an Attendant. 

Attend. Pardon, my gracions Lord, this bold Intrusion. 
Two Ladies veil'd, escaping from Phcerea, 
Ask with such earnestness for Prince Aristor, 
That, sure, their Bus'ness is of mighty Moment. 
From one this Ring at her entreaty, Sir, I must deliver. 

Gives it to Aristor and Exit. 

Aristom. Retire, and if not call'd, return no more. 300 

Aristor. 'Tis Amalinthci's, Ring, my Amalintha's: 
She's come in time, to see me fall her Victim. 

Aristom. No; to receive her from my Hand, my Son; 
Since 'twas from her's, I took this healing Weapon, 
That has cut off the Hate in which I held her. 
'Twas she that met me rising from my Grave, 
And fearless freed the Foe to her and Sparta: 
Then in a grateful Promise was I bound 
Not to deny whate'er she shou'd request ; 
And sure thy Love, before the Pomp of Crowns, 810 

Is what a Maid must ask, that knows its Value. 

Aristor. The Transports of my Soul be thus exprest ; 
Then let me Dye, for having griev'd such Goodness. 

[^Embracing his Father's Knees. 

Aristom. No ; rise my Son, go meet and chear thy Love, 
And to this Tent conduct the Royal Maid, 
Whilst in that inner Part I stand conceal'd. 
And hear her tell why thus she comes to seek us: 
Thence will I issue, as occasion calls, 
And giving thee, give all I hold most precious. 

[He goes into the inner Tent. Aristor goes out at the other 
Door and re-enters immediately leading Amalintha veil'd 
follow'd by Phila. 

Aristor. Dismiss that Cloud, and with it all your Fears, 
Safe in this Camp, and in Aristor'a Love, 821 



Countess of Winchilsea 391 

Which ne'er was truly bless'd, 'till this glad Moment. 

Now Amalintlia, let my Joys o'erflow; 

And ere I ask what brought thee to my sight, 

Let it be filled with thy amazing Beauties, 

And with this Hand my longing Lips be clos'd. 

[Kisses her Hand. 

Amal. Thus, after each short absence, may we meet, 
Thus pleas'd, thus wrapt in Love, thus dying fond. 
But Oh Aristor! since I last beheld you, 
So has this Life been threaten'd by the Fates, 330 

That to your Arms 'tis forc'd for Peace and Safety. 

Aristor. Still may they prove a Haven for my Love, 
Too strong for all the Shocks of rig'rous Fortune. 
But what beneath thy Father's Roof cou'd fright thee ? 
Or what bold Danger break thro' his Protection? 

Amal. 'Twas from Himself, and all the Lords of Sparta. 
When Aristomenes they found escap'd, 
High was their Rage as Billows in a Tempest; 
And all the Arts of State were put in use 
To find who had assisted in his Flight: 340 

But still in vain, 'till subtle, vile ClarintJms — 

Aristor. That Villain will be first in Blood and Mischief. 
But cou'd he pry into thy generous Heart, 
And find it there, that you had nobly done it? 
And are not secret Thoughts secure against him ? 

Amal. I did believe them so, 'till he disprov'd it : 
For 'twas his Counsel, when all others fail'd. 
To know by speaking Gods the deep Contrivance; 
And from the Oracle, in some few Moments, 
The full Discov'ry will have reach'd Phcer^ea. 350 

Which ere it does, I was advis'd to leave. 
By one that heard the horrid Voice accuse me, 
And with a Speed unmark'd outflew the rest. 

Aristor. As swiftly may the bounteous Gods reward him. 



392 The Poems of Anne 

Amal. This, my Aristor, brings me to your Tents, 
But not to save my Life, or 'scape tlieir Fury : 
For shou"d your Heart, which boldly I will claim, 
Be yet deny'd me by your injur'd Father, 
Not all his Army shou'd retard my Steps 
From leading to the Town, and certain Ruin; 360 

For they have sworn it (with this Imprecation, 
That 'till 'tis done, no Victory may bless them) 
To sacrifice the Soul that sav'd the Gen'ral. 

Enter Aristomenes from the inward Tent. 

Aristom. That Army you have nam'd, shall first in Flames 
Consume the utmost Town of Lacedemon. 
Take your Security, and softest Wishes, 
Your dear Aristor take, and if ought more 
The fair Preserver of his Father claims. 
Be it but nam'd, and at that instant granted. 

Amal. Beyond Aristor's Heart there's no Request, 370 
No longing Thought, no Hope for Amalinfha: 
For still his Love prescrib'd their tender Limits, 

Aristor. Oh! let it not be thought irrev'rent Passion, 
If in the awful Presence of a Father 
I run upon my Joys, and grasp 'em thus. [Embraces her. 

Aristom. Thou well dost intimate I shou'd retire ; 
For Privacy is only fit for Lovers. 

Aristor. Pardon my Transport, Sir, nor thus mistake it. 

Aristom. No more, my Son ! but when the Trumpet calls. 
Which must be soon, remember thou'rt a Soldier, 380 

And that the Battle, we shall lead to morrow, 
Will ask our best of Care and Preparation. 

Aristor. Never was I yet wanting to my Charge. 
But give me leave here to attend that Summons. 

[Exit Aristomenes. 
For Oh ! my Amalintha, since thou'rt mine. 
Since I can tell my Heart that darling Truth ; 



Countess of Winchilsea 393 

The Moments that must take me from th j sight, 

Will pass for lost, and useless to Aristor. 

And this War done, which we now soon shall finish 

(For You not there, what God will fight for Sparta?) 390 

I'll swear the Sun and radiant Light shall part, 

Ere I will once be found from this lov'd Presence, 

Amal. Confirm it, all ye soft and gentle Pow'rs! 
And let the pattern of a Love so perfect • 
Reform Mankind, and bless believing Women. 
But can I think it is Aristor speaks? 
That I behold, and hear you safe from Danger, 
Whom late I saw assaulted so with Death, 
When from the Guard a Weapon you had snatched, 
And but that brave Swords length cou'd keep him from you? 
Hope and fond Expectation all had left me: 401 

Arm'd with this Dagger full I stood in vain. 
And from my Window watch'd the fatal Stroke, 
Which soon was to be copy'd on my Heart: 
Then, had I meant to own your noble Love, 
And told mine Dying, whilst the Croud had trembl'd. 

Aristor. I saw your dire Intent, and that preserv'd me: 
For 'twas to stop your Arm, that mine perform'd 
What else had been above the Force of Nature; 
And when the Drums of Demagetus thunder'd, 410 

As thro' the shiver'd Gates he rush'd to save me. 
You may remember, that I wou'd not meet him, 
Till I had told my Love what meant the Tumult, 
Which since has given me Fears, cold as pale Death, 
Lest some Observer might have charg'd it on you. 

[Trumpets sound. 

Amal. No ; for too much their own Concern engag'd them. 
But Oh! already hark! the Trumpet calls, 
And jealous Fame no longer lets me keep you. 
Must you be gone, must you obey this Summons ? 



394 The Poems of Anne 

Aristor. Ob ! yes, I must ; it is the Voice of Honour. 420 
Yet, do not weep — 

Be this Embrace the Earnest of a Thousand. 
Now let me lead you to Herminia's Tent* 
The7i think, I go more to secure your Charms, 
And fight to rest with Peace in these fair Arms. 

[He leads her off. 

ACT V SCENE I 

The SCENE is the Camp. A Noise of Drums and Trumpets. 
Enter Aristomenes, Aristor, Demagetus, Alcander, several 
Officers and Soldiers. 

Enter an Officer from the other Door, and speaks to the General. 

Officer. My Lord! I'm from Alcander bid to say, 
The Battle he has marshall'd as you order'd; 
And that your Presence now is only wanted. 

Aristom. Tell him we come ; and let the Drums beat higher. 
Now, my brave Followers, be your selves to Day, 
And more I need not ask, that know your Valour; 
Who've seen you at the backs of Spartans ride, 
Till their long Flight, and not your Conquest, tir'd you. 

[The Soldiers shout. 
And Oh! my Sons, since they who bravely seek it. 
May meet with Death, when all his Darts are flying, 10 

Let me Embrace, and breathe my Blessings on ye. 

[Embraces Demagetus. 
Yet, Demagetus, if I 'scape him now, 

And Victory attends my great Endeavour, 
Thou shalt Triumphant lead me into Rhodes, 
Where we'll obey the Gods, and save thy Country. 

Dem. Still you're the Best of Men, as they declared you. 

Aristom. Now let me fold thee thus, my Life's best Treasure I 

[He embraces Aristor, but seems disordered, and not to feel him in 
his Arms, lohich he often clasps about him. 



Countess of Winchilsea 395 

Thou dost not fill my Arms, 'tis Air I grasp: 
Nor do my Eyes behold thee — 

Where is my Son, ha! where is my Aristor? 20 

Aristor. Here my dear Lord, here pressing to your Bosom. 

[^His Voice seems to Aristomenes {still under his disorder) to he 
low and different to what it was usually. 

Aristom. From what far distant Valley comes thy Voice? 
It sounds so hollow, scarce my Ear receives it. 

Aristor. What means my noble Father! 

Aristom. Till now, my faithful Senses never faiPd me. 
They talk of Omens, ha! I must not think on't; 
Such chilling Damps would blast a Day of Battle: [^Aside. 
Yet let my evil Genius but be true, 
And a fam'd End is all it can portend me. 

Aristor. You reason with your self, and turn from us. 30 
May we not know what thus disturbs your Thoughts ? 

Aristom. Nothing — a Vapour crossed me, but 'tis gone: 
And now the Field, the dusty Field, my Sons, 
Must be the Scene, where we shall nobly act 
What our great Spirits, and our Country urges. 
The Trumpet calls, with the impatient Drum; 
And He that loves his Honour, let him come. 

[He draws his Sword and goes off followed by the rest with their 
Swords drawn, Drum,s and Shouts of Battle immediately suc- 
ceed. 

The Noise continues, the SCENE changes to a fine Tent. 
Enter Amalintha, followed by Phila. 

Amal. Not yet enough! when will this Discord end! 
Is there no happy Land, 

Where only Love, and its kind Laws prevail? 
Where the false Trumpet flatters not to Death, 
Nor the more noisy Drum outcries the Dying? 
Oh! Phila, why shou'd Men with Hearts unmov'd 
Seek the bold War, and leave ours trembling for them ? 



396 The Poems of Anne 

Now whilst I speak, a chilling Fear surrounds me; 

And ev'ry Tread I hear, is hast'ning on, 

Methinks, to tell me, all my Hopes are perish'd. 10 

Phila. Why shou'd you, Madam, who have pass'd already, 
Unhurt by Fortune, thro' more threat'ning Dangers, 
Now faint, when Reason bids you think the best? 
The Sound goes from us, and the lucky War 
(Since you've the Promise of your Father's Life) 
Proceeds, as we cou'd wish, for the Messenians. 

Amal. So do's it seem; but yet my failing Spirits 
Sink to my Heart, and bid it think of Ruin. 
Last Night my Dreams shew'd me Aristor bleeding; 
And o'er my Head a screaming Voice proclaim'd 20 

That Amalintha's hasty Fate had kill'd him : 
I clos'd my Eyes to catch another Vision, 
That might interpret, or prevent the first; 
But all in vain, no Help or Comfort found me. 
And wrapt in Fears, I wak'd and still continue 
For what's foretold so fatal to my Love. 

Phila. Your Fate work his? it rather will protect him. 
But here come Tydings, and the Bearer smiles ; 
Good let them be, and these vain Fears will vanish. 

Enter an Officer. 

Amal. From Prince Aristor? Do's he live, and send you ? 

Officer. Madam he does — 31 

And bids me say, what I my self can witness, 
That Lacedemo7i' s Battle breaks to pieces, 
And soon will give him leave to find you here. 

Amal. Take this, and wear it. Soldier, for your News; 

[Gives him a Jewel. 
And may your Honours still outshine its Lustre. 
Stay here, whilst I report this to Herminia, 
If Demagetus too be yet in safety. 



Countess of Winchilsea 397 

Officer. He is; and near Aristor did I leave him. 

Amal. Come with me Phila; yet my Heart is heavy, 40 
And wou'd be forcing Tears to my sad Eyes: 
But I'll repel them with this welcome Message, 
And put on all the smiles of Love to meet him. 

[Exit with Phila into the Tent. 

Officer. The Centinels have all forsook the Tents, 
In hopes to share the Plunder of the Foe, 
Finding by their retiring we prevail: 
But I'll report it loudly to the General. 
Oh! here are some returning; are they Messenians? 
They wear the Habit, yet no Face I know; 
Their Haste and Looks do seem to point at Mischief: 50 
I will conceal my self, and watch their Purpose. 

[He conceals himself. 

Enter Clarinthus ivith others disguis'd like Messenian Soldiers. 

Clar. You heard the King, and the chief Lords of 
Sparta 
Wish, that no Victory might bless our Arms, 
Till we had sacrificed the Traytor's Life, 
That freed this Lyon, which devours us all. 

Sold. We did, we did — 

Clar. You've also heard, 'twas Amalintha's Action. 

Sold. Yes, and the King then said, his Vowshou'd stand: 
And she had Dy'd, I think, had she not fled for't. 

Clar. 'Tis true; therefore when I reflected on our Curse, 
And saw that Conquest wou'd no more attend us 61 

Till we perform'd what to the Gods we swore, 
I mov'd the King — 

To let me with your Aid attempt the Camp, 
Which if I found unguarded, 
I would to Sparta soon convey the Traytress, 
Where she should meet the Rigour of the Law. 



398 The Poems of Anne 

These are the Royal Tents, where she must be ; 
Therefore no more remains, but to secure her. 

[They follow him into the inner Tent and the conceal'd Officer 
comes out. 

Officer. Curst Conspiration, not to be prevented 70 

With but my single Arm against their Numbers ! 
But to the Battle, and Aristor^s Ear I'll fly for Help ; 
That may o'ertake, and cross the bloody Purpose. [Exit. 

The Wom^n shriek in the inner Tent, and Re-enter Clarintha 
&c. leading in Amalintha and Phila. 

Amal. Messenians are ye, and yet treat me thus! 
Restrain those Hands, that gave your Gen'ral to you. 
Let me but hear you speak, and name the Cause; 
Which, if a just one, I'll submit to Fortune. 

Clar. 'Tis but too just, and do's not ask explaining. 

Amal. Oh ! now Clarinthus in your Voice I read 
The cruel Sentence of an angry Father. 80 

Turn not away that Face, but hear your Princess; 
I can't resist, no Force, no Help is near me: 
Therefore command, that but my Arms be freed. 
And let me not be dragg'd, where I must follow. 

Clar. Will you, relying then on me for Safety, 
Forbear to cry for Help, as we conduct you? 

Amal. By Castor^s Soul I swear it. 

Clar. Then taking first her Dagger, free her Arms. 
Give me your Hand, and now perform your Promise, 
To follow where I'll lead you — 90 

[Just as Clarinthus is offering to take her Hand, she snatches 
Phila's Dagger, and then answers Clarinthus. 

Amal. No, stay Clarinthus; that I did not Promise. 
My Voice, and not my Feet, my Word engag'd ; 
And whilst my Hand holds this, I will not follow. 

Clar. So swift and subtle? yet disarm and take her. 



Countess of Winchilsea 399 

Amal. Hear me but speak, Clarintlius: 
My Father's Life already I've secur'd; 
And if you yet will quit this dang'rous Purpose, 
Yours with Rewards, as great as your Desires, 
Shall too be given you, and all Wrongs lie bury'd. 

Clar. More than I love Rewards, I hate Messenia; 100 
Therefore alive or dead will bear you from 'em. 

[He offers to sieze her, she keeping him off with her Dagger 
kneels. 

Amal. Oh! Pity yet my Youth, and wretched Fortunes; 
A Princess at your Feet behold in Tears, 
And Spare the Blood, the Royal Blood of Sparta. 

Clar. Yes, and be lost our selves to save a Trayt'ress? 
For, such you've been to that high Blood you've boasted, 
I will not spare nor pity, but thus seize you. 

[He wrests the Dagger from her, she rises hastily and followed by 
Phila escapes into the Tent, Clarinthus pursues her, and 
immediately the Cries of Women are heard. 

Enter at the other Door Aristor and Soldiers. 

Aristor. Oh! we are come in time. Detested Villains, 
Your Deaths are all that you shall meet with here. 

[They fight. 
Re-enter Clarinthus. 

Clar. The Victim's struck which could not be borne off. 
Now my next Task 111 

Must be to rescue those, who shar'd the Danger. 

[He runs at Aristor, who kills him, he speaks falling. 
Thou'st kill'd Clarinthus; And 
The Fiends reward thee. 

Aristor. Dye ; and those Fiends thou call'st on meet thy 
Spirit. 
I askt but that, to crown the War we've ended. 

[He and his Men fall on the rest, fighting off the Stage. 



400 The Poems of Anne 

Enter Amalintha wounded and supported by Phila. 

■ Amal. Phila thy Hand ; help me to reach that Couch, 
The dying Bed of wretched Amalintha! 
Nay do not weep, since 'tis the Fate's Decree, 
Who let one luckless Moment interpose 120 

Betwixt Aristor's coming, and my Ruin. 
Here, set me down ; and let this last Embrace [Sits doion. 
Reward the Cares and Fears, my Life has cost thee. 
Now leave me, Phila, to perform a Part 
Which must not be prevented by thy Tears. 

Phila. Thus pale, thus faint, thus dying must I leave you ! 

Amal. Yes; if thou wilt obey, thou must retire. 
But be not far, and when thou seest me fall'n 
Dead in Aristor's Arms, who'll soon return. 
Come forth, and tell him 'twas my last Request 130 

(By all our Love, by all our Sighs and Sorrows, 
By our new Vows, and swiftly faded Joys) 
That He wou'd yet survive his Amalintha; 
Nor let my fatal Vision prove a Truth, 
That 'twas my Fate, my hasty Fate that kill'd him. 

Phila. Let me but stay, at least 'till he's arriv'd. 

Amal. 'Twou'd cross my Purpose, hark! I hear him 
coming. 
Quickly retire and let me hide this Stream, 
Lest he shou'd swell it with a Flood of Tears, 
And waste in Grief my small remaining Life, 140 

Which I design to lavish out in Love. 

[Phila goes off. Amalintha pulls her Garment over her Wound. 
About him let my dying Arms be thrown. 
Whilst I deny my parting Life one Groan. 
My failing Breath shall in soft Sighs expire. 
And tender Words spend my last vital Fire ; 
That of my Death Men this Account may give. 
She ceas'd to Love, as others cease to Live. 



Countess of Winchilsea 401 

Enter Aristor hastily, and sits down by her. 

Aristor. How fares my Love ? sink not beneath your Fears, 
When this most hicky Hand has made them groundless, 
Securing to my Life its greatest Blessing, 150 

Your matchless Love and all its dying Transports. 

Amal. Its dying Transports, did you say Aristor? 
I would be glad to know, that Death has Transports. 
But are there none, none that do live and Love? 
That early meet, and in the Spring of Youth, 
Uncross'd, nor troubl'd in the soft Design, 
Set sweetly out, and travel on to Age 
In mutual Joys, that with themselves expire? 

Aristor. Indeed, there are but few, that are thus Happy. 
But since our Lot it is, t'encrease the number; 160 

Let us not lose a Thought on other's Fortunes, 
But keep them still employ'd upon our own; 
For in no Hearts, sure. Love e'er wrought more Wonders. 

Amal. Oh! no, to mine I gladly did admit it 
Thro' the stern hazards of a Father's Wrath, 
And all the Hate of Sparta and Messenia. 
If e'er I wept, 'twas Love that forc'd the Dew, 
And not my Country, or my colder Friendships; 
And on my Face (when Lacedemon mourn' d) 
Suspected Smiles were seen to mock her Losses; 170 

Because that Love was on the adverse Party. 
Thus fond, thus doating have I pass'd my Hours, 
And with their dear remembrance will I close 
My Life's last Scene, and grasp you thus in Dying. 

[She embraces him. 

Aristor. Far be that Hour; but Oh! my Amalintha, 
Proceed thus to describe thy tender Soul, 
And charm me with thy mighty Sense of Passion; 
For know, 'twas that which fix'd me ever thine. 
When with a Pleasure, not to be express'd, 



402 The Poems of Anne 

I found no Language of my Love escap'd thee, 180 

Tho' wrapped in Myst'ry to delude the Croud ; 
When ev'ry longing Look cou'd raise a Blush, 
And every Sigh I breath'd heave this lov'd Bosom, 
Which held such soft Intelligence with mine, 
And now o'erflows with a like Tide of Pleasure. 

Amal. Oh ! yes, it do's ; it meets the vast Delight, 
And takes the Thought ev'n of Elysium from me. 
Nor will I, as some peevish Beauty might. 
Take light ofPence, that mine you did not mention ; 
Since 'tis my equalling Aristor's Love 190 

Is all the Charm, I wou'd be proud to boast of. 

Aristor. Believe not, that I slighted such Perfections. 
I saw you Fair, beyond the Fame of Helen; 
But Beauty's vain, and fond of new Applause, 
Leaving the last Adorer in Despair 
At his approach, who can but praise it better: 
Whilst Love, iVarcissMS-like, courts his Reflection, 
And seeks itself, gazing on other's Eyes. 
When this I found in yours, it bred that Passion, 
Which Time, nor Age, nor Death, shall e'er diminish. 200 

Amal. For Time, or Age, I think not of their Power. 
But, after Death, Ainstor, cou'd you love me, 
Still call to me your Thoughts, when so far absent, 
And mourn me sleeping in that Rival's Arms? 

Aristor. Yes; if I cou'd outlive my Arnalintha, 
Still shou'd I turn my Eyes to that cold Grave, 
Still love thee there, and wish to lie as low. 
But why do's ev'ry Period of thy Speech 
Thus sadly close with that too mournful Subject? 
Wliy, now I press this Question, dost thou weep, 210 

Yet in my Bosom strive to hide thy Tears? 
Paleness is on thy Cheek, and thy damp Brow 
Strikes to my Heart such sympathizing Cold, 



Countess of Winchilsea 403 

As quenches all its Fire, but that of Love. 
Oh! speak my Life, my Soul, my Amalintha; 
Speak, and prevent the boding Fears that tell me 
Eternal Separation is at hand, 
And after this, I ne'er shall clasp thee more. 

{^Embraces her, and she starts and groans. 

Amal. Oh! O', O', O'. 

Aristor. Nay, if the gentle foldings of my Love, 220 

The tender circling of these Arms can wound, 
'Tis sure some inward Anguish do's oppress thee, 
Which too unkindly thou wilt still keep secret. 

Amal. Secret it shou'd have been, 'till Death had seal'd it; 
Had not that Groan, and my weak Tears betray'd me: 

[Speaks faintly. 
For Death, which from Clarinthus I receiv'd. 
Is come to snatch my Soul from these Embraces. 

Aristor. Oh fatal sound! but let me not suppose it, 
Till Art is weary'd for thy Preservation. 
Haste to procure it Phila: all that hear me 230 

Fly to her Aid; or you more speedy Gods 
The Cure be yours, and Hecatombs attend you. 
But none approach ; then let me haste to bring it, 
Tho' thus to leave her is an equal Danger. 

[Endeavours to go. 

Amal. Aristor stay; nor let my closing Eyes 
One Moment lose the Sight that ever charm'd them. 
No Art can bring relief ; and melting Life 
But lingers till my Soul receives th' Impression 
Of that lov'd Form, which ever shall be lasting, 
Tho' in new Worlds, new Objects wou'd efface it. 240 

Aristor. No, Amalintha; if it must be so. 
Together we'll expire, and trace those Worlds, 
As fond, and as united as before: 
For know, my Love the Sword of War has reach'd me ; 



404 The Poems of Anne 

And none wou'd I permit to bind the Wound, 
Till to thy gentle Hand I cou'd reveal it. 
The Blood uncheck'd shall now profusely flow, 
And Art be scorn'd, that cou'd but half restore me. 

Amal. Oh! let me plead in Death against that Purpose, 
Employ my Hand, yet warm, to close the Wound, 250 

And with my suppling Tears disperse the Anguish. 
Your Country asks your stay, and more your Father: 
This Blood is his, ally'd to all his Virtues, 
By him more priz'd, than what supports his Frame, 
Nor shou'd be lavish'd thus without his Licence. 
Oh ! Aristomenes haste to preserve it. 
Since Life from me departs, and Love is useless 
Aristor — [^She Dies. 

Arisfor. Her fleeting Breath has borne far hence my 
Name : 
But soon my following Spirit shall o'ertake her. 260 

My Godlike Father gave her to my Arms, 
And then resign'd to her more powerful Claim 
This purple Stream, which wafts me to possess her. 
May every Power, that shields paternal Goodness, 
Enfold his Person, and support his Sway: 
His dear remembrance take these parting drops, [^He weeps. 
And then be free, my Soul, for ties more lasting, 
Eternal Love, the faithful Lovers due. 
In those blest Fields, which stand display'd before me. 
My Amalintha — [He takes her in his Arms mid dies. 270 

Enter Phila. 

Phila. I shou'd have come, and urg'd his Preservation, 
If when I saw her fall my Strength had served me: 
But all my Cares departed with her Life, 
And mine I hope is now for ever going. 

[She falls in a swoon at Amalintha's feet. 



Countess of Winohilsea 405 

Shouts of Victory. Enter Demagetus, Arcasius, Alcander, and 
several officers, their Swords drawn as coming from Battle. 

Demag. A glorious Day, and warmly was it fought: 
Nor ever did a Victory more complete 
Stoop to the General's Valour — 
Some Troops are order'd to secure Phcerea; 
And with to-morrow's Sun he enters there 
To take the Homage of the conquer'd Spartans. 280 

Alcand. They say, that Anaxander he has freed 
As generously, as he'd ne'er known the Dungeon. 

Demag. He did, at Prince Aristor''s kind Eequest; 
And now, with the high Marks of Conquest crown'd 
Is coming to declare to Amalintha 
That all her Wishes, and her Fears are ended. 

[Turning to go into the Tent, he sees the Bodies. 
They are, indeed; for ever, ever ended. 
Oh ! turn and see where that pale Beauty lies, 
And faithful, dead Aristor, bleeding by her! 

Alcand. O sudden Horror! where's our Conquest now, 
Our lofty Boasts, and brave expected Triumphs ? 291 

Lie there, my Sword, beneath my Leader's Feet; 

[Lays his Sivord at Aristor's Feet. 
For under him I fought, and now weep for him. 

Dema. We'll all join to encrease the mournful Shower. 
A Soldier for a Soldier's Fall may weep, 
And shed these Drops without unmanly Weakness. 

[A Sound of Trumpets. 
But hark! the Gen'ral, how shall we receive him? 
Awhile we'll with our Bodies shade this Prospect, 
And tell him by our Looks, some Grief attends him ; 
Lest all his Fortitude shou'd not support 300 

A Change so sudden in his wretched Fortune. 
Nor can we learn from whence this Loss proceeds. 



406 The Poems of Anne 

Phila. Yes, that you may from me : Life yet remains, 
And will admit of the too dire Relation. 

Demag. Then gently bear her hence, and hear it from her; 

{They lead off YhiXd,. 
That when the Sorrow, which at first must bar 
All cold Enquiries, shall awhile be past. 
The Gen'ral may be told to what he owes it. 
But see! he enters; be we Sad and Silent: 
For Oh! too soon this fading Joy must vanish. 310 

[They stand all together before the Bodies. 

A Flodbish of Drums and Trumpets, with Shouts of Joy. 

Enter several Officers and Soldiers, the Shepherds and Shepherd- 
esses strewing flowers, folloived by Aristomenes Ms Sword 
drawn in his Hand, and a Wreath of Victory on his Head. 

Aristom. Enough my Friends! enough my Fellow-Soldiers! 
And you kind Shepherds, and your gentle Nymphs, 
Receive my Thanks for the Perfumes you scatter. 
Which yet shall flourish under our Protection. 

Shepherds, &c. Great Aristomeries! Live long and happy ! 

Others. Live long and happy. Father of Messenia! 

Aristom. Now to fair Amalintha wou'd I speak 
The joyful Tydings of this Day's Atchievements: 
Therefore let her be told, we wish her Presence. 

[Seeing none move. 
Ha! what none stir! perhaps Aristo7^''s with her: 320 

Why let him tell it; from a Lover's mouth, 
'Twill bear a Sound more welcome and harmonious. 
And sure in Love and Battle none exceeds him. 
The last you all can witness; you saw him Fight, 
Saw the young Warrior with his Beaver up 
Dart like the Bolt of Jove amongst their Ranks, 
And scatter 'em like an Oak's far-shooting Splinters. 
Will none confirm it? this is envious Silence. 

[Walks up and down. 



Countess of Winchilsea 407 

Thou Demagetus, ha! thou'rt all in Tears, 

And so are these that make a Wall about thee: 330 

The Cause deliver, Oh! declare it quickly. 

Demag. Enquire it not, my Lord; too soon 'twill find you. 

Aristom. I must prevent it by my hasty Search. 
Reveal it you, or you, since all partake it: 

[To Alcander, (&c. 
What silent still!— 

If yet ye do not speak, ye do not love me; 
I find you do not, since ye all are Speechless. 
Aristor would have spoke, had he been here. 

Demag. Aristor'' s here, but Oh! he cannot speak. 
You have it now, my Lord, and must weep with us. 340 

Aristom. Thy Tongue has warn'd my Eyes to seek the 
Centre : [Looks down. 

For round this Place I dare not let them stray, 
Lest they explain too soon, thy fatal meaning.. 
Oh! Anaxander, had such Trembling seiz'd me, 
When at the Army's Head I met thy Fury; 
The poorest of thy Troops had cry'd me Coward. 
Why so we're all, there's not a Man that is not; 
We all dread something, and can shrink with Terror: 
Yet he that comes a Conqu'ror from the Field, 
Shall find a vain Applause to crown his Valour, 350 

Tho' fainting thus, and sweating cold with Fear. 

[Pauses and leans on an Officer. 
But didst thou say, Aristor cou'd not speak? 
Oh! that I live to ask it! not answer to his Father! 

Demag. Oh! never more! 

Aristom. The Sun will keep his Pace, and Time revolve, 
Rough Winters pass, and Springs come smiling on ; 
But Thou dost talk of Never, Demagetus : 
Yet ere Despair prevails, retract that Word 
Whose cloudy distance bars the reach of Thought, 



408 The Poems of Anne 

Nor let one Ray of Hope e'er dawn beyond it. 360 

Never, Oh never! 

Dernag. This Passion must rise higher, ere it falls. 
Divide and let him know the worst. [To the Officers. 

Aristom. Where is my Son? my Grief has pass'd all 
Bounds, 
All dallying Circumstance, and vain Delusion, 
And will be told directly where to find him. 

Demag. Oh ! then behold him there ! 

[They divide. He seeing the Bodies stands awhile amaz'd and 
speechless, drops his Sword, then speaks. 

Aristom. So look'd the World to Pyrrha, and her Mate; 

So gloomy, waste, so destitute of Comfort, 

When all Mankind besides lay drown'd in Ruin. 370 

Oh! thou wert well inform'd, my evil Genius; 

And the complaining Rocks mourn'd not in vain: 

For here my Blood, my dearest Blood I pay 

For this poor Wreath, and Fame that withers like it ; 

[Tears the Wreath, and throws himself upon his Son. 
The Ground, that bore it, take the slighted Toy, 
Whilst thus I throw me on his breathless Body, 
And groan away my Life on these pale Lips. 
Oh!0', O', O',— 

Thus did I clasp him, ere the Battle join'd. 
When Fate, which then had Doom'd him, mock'd my Arms, 
Nor in their folds wou'd let me feel my Son. 381 

Oh ! that his Voice (tho' low as then it seem'd) 
Cou'd reach me now! — But the fond Wish is vain. 
And all but this too weak to ease my Pain. 

[He takes the Sword that lay at Aristor's Feet, and goes to 
fall upon it, Demagetus takes hold of it. 

Demag. Oh! hold, my Lord; nor stab at once your 
Army. 

[All the Officers and Soldiers kneel, Alcander speaks. 



Countess of Winchilsea 409 

Alcand. We're all your Sons; and if you strike, my Lord, 
The Spartans may come back, and take our Bodies; 
For when yours goes, our Spirits shall attend it. 

[They all prepare to fall on their Swords. 

Aristom. Wou'd you then have me live, when thus unbow- 
ell'd. 
Without the Charms of my Aristor''s presence, 390 

Without his Arm to second me in Fight, 
And in still Peace his Voice to make it perfect? 

\He rises in a Passion and comes forward on the Stage. 
Yes I will live, ye Sov'reign Pow'rs, I will: 
You've put my Virtue to its utmost Proof; 
Yet thus chastis'd, I own superior Natures, 
And all your fixt Decrees this Sword shall further, 
'Till Rhodes is rescu'd, and my Task completed. 
Who knows, but that the Way to your Elysium 
Is Fortitude in Ills, and brave Submission; 
Since Heroes whom your Oracles distinguish, 400 

Are often here amidst their Greatness wretched? 
But yet my Heart! my lov'd, my lost Aristor! 

Demag. Let me succeed him in his active Duty, 
And join with all the Earth to bring you Comfort. 

Aristom. Comfort on Earth! Oh! 'tis not to be found. 
My Demagetus, thou hast far to travel ; 
The Bloom of Youth sits graceful on thy Brow, 
And bids thee look for Days of mighty Pleasures, 
For prosp'rous Wars, and the soft Smiles of Beauty, 
For generous Sons, that may reflect thy Form, 410 

And give thee Hopes, as I had, of their succour. 

Demag. With these indeed my Thoughts have still been 
flatter'd. 

Aristom. Then let me draw this flatt'ring Veil aside. 
And bid thee here, here in this Face behold, 
How biting Cares have done the work of Age, 



410 The Poems of Anne 

And in my best of Strength mark'd me a Dotard. 

Defeated Armies, slaughter'd Friends are here ; 

Disgraceful Bonds, and Cities laid in Ashes: 

And if thou find'st, that Life will yet endure it, 

Since what I here have lost — 420 

So bow'd, so waining shalt thou see this Carcass, 

That scarce thou wilt recall what once it was. 

Then be instructed Thou, and All that hear me, 

Not to expect the compass of soft Wishes, 

Or constant Joys, which fly the fond Possessor. 

Since Man, hy swift returns of Good and III, 

In all the Course of Life'^s uncertain still; 

By Fortune favoured now, and now opprest. 

And not, Hill Death, secure of Fame, or Rest. 

A SONG 

Designed to have been brought into the part between Climander 
and Herminia. 

Wretched Amintor with a flame 

Too strong to be subdu'd 
A nymph above his Rank and Name 

Still eagerly pursu'd. 

2 

To gain her ev'ry art he try'd, 

But no return procur'd, 
Mistook her prudence for her pride, 

Nor guest what she endur'd. 

3 

Till prostrate at her feet one day 

Urging in deep dispair. 
Thus softly was she heard to say, 

Or sight itt to the air. 



Countess of Winchilsea 411 

4 

Witnesse ye secret cares I prove, 

Which is the greater tryal, 
To sue for "unrewarded love, 

Or dye by self denyal. 



EPILOGUE TO ARISTOMENES 

An Epilogue, after a tedious Play, 
Is like the last long mile in dusty way. 
That trys your patience, and that wearies more, 
Then all the irksome road you passt before. 
Or like the Stirrup cup, a Bumkin forces. 
When men already scarce can sitt their horses. 
Yett for one here, good arguments prevail ; 
And since the Play so many ways does fail, 
For her own sake, the Author thought itt fitt 
To lett the Audience know when this was writt, 
'Twas not for praise, or with pretense to witt: 
But lonely Godmersham th' attempt excuses, 
Not sure to be endur'd, without the Muses ; 
Then if what was compos'd within that shade, 
(And has no farther from itts limmitts strayde 
Then Eastern Beautys, which are only shown 
To the dear spouse, and family alone) 
Can gain your Pardon — cancell but the past, 
And of this kind, this fault shall be the last. 



NOTES 
[Notes by Lady Winchilsea are inclosed in brackets] 

INTEODUCTION 

p. xviii: ^^ Sketch of Lady Winchilsea' s Life. "^The chief 
authorities quoted in this sketch are Genealogist, New Series, ed. 
Keith Murray, Vol. XII, "The Royal Descent of Kingsmill; " Gene- 
alogist, ed. Marshall, Vol. I ; Burke, Landed Gentry ; Harl. Soc. 
Pub., Vols. XXIV, XXVI; Doyle, Official Baronage; Collins, Peer- 
age. 

P. xxii, 1. 28: "... . the list of ladies." — This list is quoted in 
Miss Strickland's Lives of the Queens of England from the origi- 
nal document. The maids of honor were Frances Walsingham, 
Catharine Fraser, Anne Killigrew, Anne Kingsmill, Catharine 
Walters, and Catharine Sedley. In other references to Anne 
Kingsmill Miss Strickland makes ciu-ious blunders. On p. 283 of 
the Life of Mary of Modena Anne is spoken of as the wife of the 
Heneage Finch who stopped the flight of James II. at Faversham, 
but that Heneage Finch was Anne's father-in-law. On p. 476, 
iinder the date of 1712, Miss Strickland calls Anne Finch 
" Queen Anne's learned lady of the Bed-chamber," and says : " Her 
Jacobite influence with Queen Anne is never calculated in general 
history, but those versed in the signs of the times know that it was 
considerable. The dislike that her royal mistress had to the war 
is alluded to in some lines playfully addressed to her by Pope. 
.... Lady Winchilsea, recently left a widow with a small provi- 
sion, was a devoted partisan of the house of Stewart : she was 
always near the royal person. This lady was a pleasant rhymstress, 
and possessed of some personal influence, but was without territorial 
power." In Notes and Queries (Eighth Series), Vol. V, p. 5, is 
a note on Lady Winchilsea, evidently based on Miss Strickland, for 
it repeats all her errors. In point of fact, the Lady Winchilsea 
"lately left a widow" in 1712 was Sarah, the wife of Charles, the 
third Earl of Winchilsea, and the nephew of Anne's husband. 

P. xxv,l. 11: '■'■Heneage Finch .... aged ab. 27 years." — In 
Doyle's Official Baronage the date of Lord Winchilsea's birth is 
given as 1654, which would make him thirty at the time of his mar- 

413 



414 Notes 

riage; but his Journal has the entry, " Jan. 3, 165f , I was born, 
11th I was christened." Add. MSS. 5507, Brit. Mus., also gives 
1656 as the date of his birth. 

P. xxvii, 1. 27: ". . . . the following statement." — Quoted in 
Nichols, Literary Anecdotes of the Eighteenth Century, Vol. I, 
p. 529. 

P. xxix, 1. 18: ^^ Heneage Finch .... as a non-juror." — "Hene- 
age [fourth Earl of Winchilsea] a man of great worth and honor; 
he was a Non jiu'or. His lady was Maid of Honour to King James 
2"^^ Queen. She was a poetess; publisht a book of poems." Mem. 
on the Peerage, by Edward Harley, Earl of Oxford. See Notes 
c^nd Queries, Second Series, No. 17, p. 325. 

P. xliv, 1. 8: ^'^ Lady Marroiv to her Daughter Lady Kay." 
Letter quoted in MSS. of Earl of Dartmouth, 3: 147, Brit. Mus. 

P. xlvi, 1. 5: " The Parallel."— The full title is: The Parallel; 
or, A Collection of Extraordinary Cases Relating to Concealed 
Births, and Disputed Successions. Containing, I. The History of 
Richard Plantagenet, Son to Richard III. II. An Account of Mrs. 
M. Cognot, etc., London, 1744. 

P. xlvii, 1. 4: "Lord Winchilsea's antiquarian zeal." — In 
Nichols, Illustrations of Literary History of 18th Cent., a note. 
Vol. II, p. 770, says that "Daniel, the fifth Earl of Winchilsea" 
was the author of the antiquarian letters : but the letters date Octo- 
ber 20, 1722— October 18, 1725; and Heneage Finch, the fourth 
earl, did not die till 1726. This error is corrected by Nichols, Vol. 
IV, p. 496. But in Gent. Mag., August and October, 1802, certain 
inquiries about a Commonplace Book " kept by Lord Winchilsea 
in 1721 " are answered in a note attributing the book to the Lord 
Winchilsea who died January 1, 1730. But this again was Daniel 
Finch, who held the earldom 1726-30. The book was by Heneage 
Finch, the fourth earl. 

P. xlvii, 1. 6: "Mr. Creyk." — See ArchcBologia,Yo\. I, p. xxxvii, 
for note on " Mr. Creyke." Also Clarke, Life of James II., Vol. II, 
Appendix, for signed statement by " J. Creyk " January 10, 172?^, 
concerning the disposition made by him of important historical 
documents formerly in the possession of the late earl of Winchilsea. 
Also letters in which the earl of Winchilsea refers to Mr. Creyk, in 
Nichols, Illustrations of the Literary Hist, of 18th Cent., Vol. II, 
p. 769 ff. The letter by Mr. Creyk on Lord Winchilsea's death 
(quoted p. Ixxxvi) is in Vol. II, p. 783. 



Notes 415 

P. xlviii, 1. 4: ^^ Lord Winchilsea was elected President of the 
Society of Antiquaries." — See Granger, Biog. Diet. 4 vols. Con- 
tinuation by Noble, 3 vols. 1806, In "A Catalogue of Engraved 
British Heads " is the statement : " On the revival of the Society 
of Antiquaries in 1717, the Earl [of Winchilsea] was chosen presi- 
dent, when he prociu'ed the excellent artist, Vertue, the oiEce of 
engraver to that respectable body. His lordship was well ac- 
quainted with his skill, which he had eminently shown in engraving 
his lordship's portrait, before mentioned. 

P. xlix, 1. 11 : ^^ Books which I have subscribed for." 

(a) " Carm. Quad." This is doubtless the Carmina Quadragesi- 
malia referred to by Coleridge in a note on his poem Kisses. A 
copy in the Bristol Library is catalogued as in " 2 vols. Oxon. 1723- 
48, 4to." 

(6) " Recuille des Piers" etc., is probably the book by Stosch, 
entitled, Pierres antiques gravies .... Dessini.es et gravies .... 
par B. Picart, Tireis des principaux cabinets de I ^Em-ope, 1724. 

(c)" Monfaucons Supplim." — Bernard de Monfaucon published 
L' AntiquitS expliquie et representee en figures in 1719. A Sup- 
pliment au livre de VAntiquiti, etc., appeared in Paris, 1725, 5 
vols. 

(d) '■''Cardinal Wolsey's Life." — Doubtless the Life by Fiddes, 
published by subscription in 1724. 

(e) " Querels Testament. " — Probably Quesnel's Reflexions 
morales sur le Nouveau Testament" published 1694; condemned 
by Pope Clement XI., 1713. 

(f) '^Sr.Ra. Winnwood's Letters."— In 1125 Edmund Sawyer 
published in London (3 vols.) Memorials of Affairs of State .... 
collected chiefly from the original papers of the Hon. Sir Ralph 
Winnwood, etc. 

{g) " Rev. Lewis' Isle of Thanet."— One of Lewis's topograph- 
ical works, published 1723. 

(/i) Mr. BrevaVs Book." — John Durant Breval wrote The Con- 
federates, and so would doubtless be well known to Lord and Lady 
Winchilsea. The book mentioned here is probably Breval's 
Remarks on Several Parts of Europe, 1723, 4 vols. 

(t) "Dr. Barwick's Z,t/e."— Probably the Vita J. Barwick 
written by Peter Barwick in Latin, and published 1721 ; or per- 
haps the translation by Hilkiah Bedford, pubhshed 1724. 

P. lii, 1. 1 : "An Ode on Love."— In Report of Hist. MSS. Com- 



416 Notes 

mission, Vol. VIII, is a notice of this ode. It is in a package 
containing many papers relating to Steele and Addison, among 
them one hundred letters to the authors of the Tatler and the 
Spectator. 

P. Ivi, 1. 3: ". . . . her Spleen had attained the dignity of a 
second edition." — See The Spleen : A Pindarique Ode, By a Lady. 
Together with a Prospect of Death : A Pindarique Essay, 1709. 
The Prospect of Death was by John Pomfret who had died in 1702, 

P. Ivi, 1. 31 : " Courthope conjectures,^' etc. — See Pope, Works 
(Elwin and Courthope), Vol. I, p. 20, note; Vol. VI, p. 198, note. 

P. Ixxvii, 1. 16 : " The note runs thus." — Throughout these 
letters by Wordsworth the page references were to the edition of 
1713. They have been changed here to correspond with the pages 
of this edition. 

P. Ixxxix, 1. 3: " Versification." — for the following references to 
Swift, Pope, and Dryden see Pope, Works (Elwin and Coiu-thope), 
Vol. I, p. 338. In Essays of John Dryden (ed. W. P. Ker, Oxford, 
1900) see " Dedication " to Aeneis, Vol. II, pp. 215-30 (passim) 
and " Dedication " of Examen Poeticum, Vol. II, pp. 10-11. 

THE PEEFACE 

p. 8, 1. 24 : " From their new Worlds, I know not where." — 
[Cowley.] The lines occur in Cowley's Complaint. 

P. 9, 1. 31 : ". . . . correct Essay 

Which so repairs our old Horatian way." 
\\j^ Roscommon on L** Mulgrave's Essay on poetry.] The quota- 
tion is from Roscommon's Essay on Translated Verse (1684). 
Mulgrave's Essay on Poetry appeared in 1682. 

P. 10, 1. 26 : "... . the two short pieces of that Pastoral." — 
[A scene or two more have been translated from the Italian and 
since added, at the end of the first part of the Book.] The two 
short pieces from the Aminta are Though ive of small jwoportion 
see and Then by some Fountain'' s flow'ry side. They number 5 and 
6 in the folio MS. The other three pieces from the Aminta num- 
ber 60, 61, 62, in the MS., and just precede the religious poems. 

P. 10, 1. 27 : ". . . . the Songs and of her few lighter things." — 
In the MS. ^^ Fables" is inserted in pencil after " Songs," the list 
of " lighter things " having apparently been made before the writing 
of the Fables. 

P. 11, 1. 6 : " My Lord Roscommon under the name of Piso." 



Notes 417 

" A noble Piso does instruct us here," is a line in Waller's Upon 
the Earl of Roscommon's Translation of Horace (1680). 

P 11, 1. 18 : " . . . . the Triumphs of Love and Innocence." — 
[Which title I have since given to that play called by me at first 
the " Queen of Cyprus ; or love above ambition."] This note is 
one of many slight indications that the folio MS. was revised by 
Lady Winchilsea herself. 

FRAGMENT 

L. 17 : After 1. 17 in the MS. the following lines have been 
crossed out : 

Nor feeds a hope that boasts but mortal birth, 
» Or springs from man though f ram'd of Royal earth. 

L. 23: Abandoned pleasures in Monastick Walls." — [Wye 
College in Kent, formerly a Priory.] The parish-church of Wye 
was, in 1447, endowed by Archbishop Kempe and converted into a 
college for the education of the youth of that district. At the close 
of the sixteenth century the site and buildings of the college were 
willed to the master of the grammar school and the master and 
mistress of Lady Joanna Thoruhill's charity school. The manor 
of the vicarage of Wye had long been in the possession of the 
Finches of East well. It is the children of the Free School of Wye 
whom Lady Winchilsea celebrates in Fanscomb Barn. See W. H, 
Ireland, History of the County of Kent ( London, 1829), Vol. II, 
p. 413. 

A LETTER TO DAFNIS 

The title in the octavo MS. is, A Letter to Dapnnis from West- 
minster, Ap : the 2d, 1685. The " Daphnis " is a substitution for 
" Mr. Finch," partially erased. 

TO MR, F., NOW EARL OF W. 

L. 41 : " In Haste th' affrighted Sisters fled." — [ The Muses — 
Erato, Melpomene, Thalia, Urania.] 

L. 73 : " Urania only lik'd the choice." — [ Urania is the Heav- 
enly Muse, and suppos'd to inspire thoughts of Virtue.] 

UPON ARDELIA's RETURN HOME 

L. 8 : " Have threaten' d Hanging, Horn, or Drowning." — 

"To put to the horn" is to proclaim one an outlaw. "Makbeth 

. . . syne confiscat Makduff's guddis, and put him to the horn" 



418 Notes 

(Jamieson's Etymol. Diet, of Scot. Language). The phrase origi- 
nated from the manner in which a person was proclaimed an out- 
law. The King's Messenger, after the formalities, must give three 
blasts on a horn, in announcement of the decree of outlawry. 

L. 48: '■'■But he reply^d she'd break the Glasses." — "Glass 
coaches," as coaches with glass in the doors and in the front of the 
coach were called, were still comparatively rare in the early eight- 
eenth century. Advertisements speak of coaches as having full 
sets of glasses, or having the glasses entire. In Mrs. Centlivre's 
The Basset Table, Act. Ill, scene 1, a despairing lover throws 
himself so violently into his coach as to " break all the glasses." 

AN INVITATION TO DAFNIS 

L. 25: " Come and let Sanson's World no more engage." — 
An edition of the Description de tout VUnivers, etc., by Nicholas 
and Guillaume Sanson, appeared in 1700. That this is the volume 
to which Lady Winchilsea refers is indicated by 1. 27. This refer- 
ence helps to date the poem and so the MS. in which it occurs. 

UPON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM LOED MAIDSTONE 

William, Lord Maidstone, the oldest son of Heneage, the 
second Earl of Winchilsea, was killed in the twenty-first year of his 
age. In Add. MSS. 30,999, Brit. Mus., is a cmious memorial to him. 
Its heavy black borders and sketch of a tomb are crudely done by 
hand. The proposed epitaph begins. 

Here William Lord of Maidstone lies, whose end 
The greatest Navies of the World did tend 
With eight hours Prologue to his Tragedy. , 

The closing lines are, 

Youth = Beauty = Honour = Courage = Wit = Good Nature 
All ly enclos'd together 
In his Tombe 
Who for his King and Country suffer'd Martyrdome. 

The English Iliads, a poetical tract of 361 pages, printed in 1674, 
also commemorates the death of Lord Maidstone. (Kentish Gar- 
land, chap, cxx.) 

FROM THE MUSES AT PARNASSUS 

The Lord Winchilsea of this poem is Charles, the posthumous 
son of William, Lord Maidstone. He came into the title on the 
death of his grandfather in September, 1689, when but seventeen 



Notes 419 

years of age. This poem was probably in honor of his eighteenth 
birthday. 

L. 16: "And trace his blood, until itt mix with Kings." — 
[A Daughter of Henry the Sevenths, when Queen Dowager of 
France, married to the Earl of Suffolk, by whom she had a 
Daughter that married to the Earl of Hartford, Great -grand-Father 
to the late restor'd Duke of Somersett, from a Daughter of whom 
my L** Winchilsea is descended.] 

UPON MY LORD WINCHILSEA's CONVERTING THE MOUNT, ETC, 

The Lord Winchilsea here eulogized is the Charles of the pre- 
ceding poem. The improvements made by him at Eastwell may 
be approximately dated by the following letter from Edward 
Southwell, who wrote from Eastwell, July 22, 1702, " My Lord 
Winchilsea has been making very fine gardens which added to the 
beauty of the Park makes it a very fine seat." 

L. 25: "Where late it stood the Glory of the Seat." — In 
Murray's Handbook for Kent and Sussex, 1868, under " Eastwell " 
there is a parenthetical reference to " an edifying story of the mis- 
fortunes which resulted from the felling of a most curious grove 
of oaks here by one of the Earls of Winchilsea." The authority 
for Murray's " edifying story " is probably the following passage in 
John Aubrey's The Natural History and Antiquities of the 
County of Surrey (London, 1718), Vol. II, p. 37 : 

I cannot omit here taking notice of the great Misfortunes in the 
Family of the Earl of Winchelsea, who at Eastwell in Kent, felled down 
a most curious grove of Oaks, near his noble seat, and gave the first 
blow with his own hands. Shortly after, the Countess died in her Bed 
suddenly, and his eldest son, the Lord Maidstone, was killed at sea by 
a cannon-bullet. 

The destruction of the oak-grove took place, then, about 1669 or 
1670. The earl referred to would be Heneage Finch, the second 
Earl of Winchilsea. In the MS. after 1. 77 the following lines have 
been crossed out : 

When by a Consort's too prevailing Art, 

The Park was rifl'd of so fair a part. 

Which now restor'd like itt's new Master's Mind 

Is with the whole, but in just bounds confin'd. 

The " consort " here referred to would be the second of the Earl's 
four wives, Mary Seymour, daughter of William, Duke of Somerset. 



420 Notes 



A SONG UPON A PUNCH BOWL 



Leslie, or Lashley, Finch was born in 1669, the year of his 
father's and mother's return from Turkey. At thirty he married 
Barbara Scroop. He died without issue at Longleat. This poem 
was first published in Mr. Gosse's Gossip in a Library. 

THE BARGAIN 

On the margin of the manuscript is written in pencil, " Made at 
my request by Ardelia." The handwriting is the same as that of 
many of the corrections in the text. 

TO MY SISTEB OGLE 

" From Kyrby, Dec. 31, 88 " is added in the earlier MS. There 
is also a note in pencil : "Also found on p. 5 of folio MS.," showing 
that the two manuscripts have been at some time in the same 
hands. Christopher Hatton, the owner of Kirby Hall, had, in 1685, 
married as his third wife Elizabeth Haselwood, Anne's cousin. 

ardelia's answer to ephelia 

L. 75: "And some feiv Authors old and dull to me." — The 
following lines were added here in the margin of the MS.: 
Ev'n Wicherly admires whose biting pen 
Reveals our Frailty to insulting men, 
And speaks of Ota way with such delight 
As if no other pen could move or write. 

L. 78: "JSJre tivelve was struck she calls me from my bed." — 
The hours observed by a fashionable lady are somewhat variously 
indicated in the satire and the comedy of this period. Lodowick in 
Sir Patient Fancy (Mrs. Behn, 1678) in describing how a married 
woman of quality ought to live, says: "From eight till twelve you 
ought to employ in dressing, till two at dinner, till five in visits, till 
seven at the play, till nine in the Park, at ten at supper with your 
lover." In The English Lady's Catechism (1703) the lady says: 
" I lie in Bed till Noon, dress all the Afternoon, dine in the Even- 
ing, and play at cards till Midnight " (quoted by Ashton: Reign of 
Queen Anne). In The Basset Table (Mrs. Ceutlivre, 1705) Lady 
Reveller says: "Why does anybody dine before Four o'Clock in 
London f For my Part, I think it an ill-bred Custom' to make my 
Appetite Pendulum to the Twelfth Hour; " and her Maid adds, 
" Besides 'tis out of fashion to dine by Daylight." In The Rape of 



Notes 421 

the Lock (ed. of 1712) Belinda wakes " when striking watches the 
tenth hour resound," but in the edition of 1714 she wakes "just at 
twelve." Prior's Hans Carvel (published 1709, but written prob- 
ably several years earlier) says of the fashionable lady, 

She without fail was wak'd at Ten, 

Drank Chocolate, then slept again. 

At Twelve she rose, with much ado 

Her cloaths were huddled on by Two. 

Then she dines, makes a tour of interesting places in the city, and 
closes the day by a turn in Hyde Park much after the fashion of 
Almeria in the poem of Lady Winchilsea. 

L. 85: " Of the best China Equipage, he lost." — Concerning the 
rage for china and the custom of boarding the India ships before 
the cargo was unloaded so as to have the first chance to pick up 
novelties, see Sydney: Social Life in England, 1660-1669, p. 270. 
Cf. description of Leonora's library {Spectator, April 12, 1711) and 
Gay's Fan (1714). 

L. 133: " J5wf Noble Pisa passes." — [L<i Roscommon.] 

L. 161: " Whilst all he sung was present to our eyes." — [In my 
L<i Roscommon's Sylenus.] 

L. 203: " Which through all ranks, down to the Carman, 
goes." — Carmen have traditional notoriety for singing and whistling. 
For an assemblage of literary references similar to this one by 
Lady Winchilsea, see Chappell: Popular Music of the Olden Time, 
Vol. I, p. 138. 

TO THE HONORABLE THE LADY WORSLEY 

The Utresia of this poem is Frances Thynne, only daughter of 
Viscount Thynne of Longleat and Frances, his wife, the daughter 
of Heneage Finch, second Earl of Winchilsea. Frances Thynne 
married Sir Robert Worsley in 1690. This poem was evidently 
written very soon after her marriage. The tone of 11. 1-16 would 
seem to date the poem before the final settlement at East well. 

L. 72: '^ His genius who th' original improved." — Baron 
Thynne of Warminster, made Viscount Weymouth in 1682. He 
came into possession of Longleat in 1682 on the murder of his 
cousin Thomas Thynne. Viscount Weymouth lived much at Long- 
leat, where he laid out gardens in the Dutch style. The new 
English larch, introduced into England in 1705, was named after 
him the Weymouth pine. He was noted as a peer who maintained 
" the splendour and hospitality of the ancient peerage of England." 



422 Notes 

the marriage of edward and elizabeth herbert 
Elizabeth Herbert, great-great-granddaughter of the fourth 
Earl of Pembroke, married Edward Herbert of Swansea, county 
Glamorgan. The " Worsley " of the poem is the Frances Worsley 
who became Lady Cartaret in 1710. Hence the marriage of 
Edward and Elizabeth Herbert must have occurred before that 
date, or when Edward was nineteeen and Elizabeth sixteen. 

ON THE DEATH OF THE HONOURABLE MR. JAMES THYNNE 

L. 23: "And his renoimied Ancestors repose." 

(a) " Coventry." — [Lord Keeper Coventry.] Lord Keeper Coven- 
try's second wife had four daughters, one of whom, Mary, married 
Sir Henry Frederick Thynno, the grandfather of the young James 
Thynne of the poem. 

(&)".... his Paternal Predecessor." — Sir John Thynne, who 
bought Longleat in 1541, and was occupied in the years 1567-79 in 
building the mansion, said to have been the first well-built house 
in the kingdom. The whole of the outside and the interior from 
the hall to the chapel court were completed by him. 

(c) " Essex." — Robert Devereux, second Earl of Essex, had a 
daughter Frances, who was married (April, 1618) to Sir William 
Seymour, afterward Marquis of Hertford and Duke of Somerset. 
Their daughter, Mary Seymour, the second wife of Heneage Finch, 
the second Earl of Winchilsea, was the mother of Frances Finch, 
who married Viscount Thynne. 

(d) '■'■ Somerset." — The Sir William Seymour of the preceding 
note. He was one of the three lords who prayed the court to lay 
upon them, as the advisers of Charles I., the entire responsibility 
for his acts. Upon his execution they gained permission to bury 
his body at Windsor. At the Restoration the dukedom of Somerset 
and the barony of Seymour (declared forfeit in 1552) were revived 
and conferred upon Sir William Seymour by act of Parliament 
September 13, 1660. He died October 24 of the same year. 

(e) " . . . . that matchless Female." — [The Lady Packington 
supposed by many to be the author of The Whole Duty of Man."] 
Dorothy Coventry, daughter of Lord Keeper Coventry and wife of 
Sir John Packington, a lady of great learning and piety. The tra- 
dition connecting her name with The Whole Duty of Man was 
persistent. Her grandson caused to be engraved on her monument, 
"justly reputed the author of The Whole Duty of Man" but the 



Notes 423 

proof seems strong that the book was really written by Richard 
Allestree. See Journal of Sacred Literature, July, 1864. 

CLEONE ILL-PAINTED 

The "Theanor" of this poem, Henry Thynne {cf. A Descrip- 
tion of one of the Pieces of Tapestry at Longleate), son of Viscount 
Weymouth, died, vita patris, 1708. '' Cleone " is his wife Grace, 
the daughter of Sir George Stroud. This poem was apparently 
written not long after the marriage of Henry Thynne and Grace 
Stroud, which took place in 1695. 

TO THE EIGHT HONORABLE THE COUNTESS OF HERTFORD 

Frances, the daughter of Henry Thynne, married Algernon 
Seymour, Earl of Hertford, in "about 1713," according to Doyle's 
Official Baronage, but "in 1715," according to the note in Lord 
Winchilsea's private journal. Lady Hertford was the correspondent 
of Henrietta Louisa Fermor, countess of Pomfret, and of Mrs. 
Elizabeth Rowe. Dr. Watts published four of her pieces under the 
pen-name " Eusebia " in his Miscellanies. Thomson dedicated his 
Spring to her in 1727. In 1728 she befriended Savage. It is 
implied in the poem that the volume sent to Lady Hertford was 
largely made up of poems that had been seen by her father Henry 
Thynne; hence it would seem to be the volume of 1713. But manu- 
script poems were also sent to Lady Hertford. 

UPON THE DEATH OR SIR WILLIAM TWISDEN 

Sir William Twisden (or Twysden), the third baronet of Roydon 
Hall, East Peckham, Kent, died November 27, 1697, and the poem 
was probably written soon after. Sir William's grandfather had 
married Anne Finch, the daughter of Sir Moyle Finch and Eliza- 
beth Heneage. The qualities attributed to Sir William Twysden 
by Lady Winchilsea are the qualities for which his father. Sir 
Roger Twysden, was especially noted. During the years 1650-60 
Sir Roger was living qtiietly on his estate and occupying himself 
chiefly with historical and antiquarian researches. During these 
years his son William was from fifteen to twenty-five years of age, 
and was closely associated with his father's interests. In 1672 the 
baronetcy devolved upon Sir William, and he evidently kept up the 
family traditions in the way of learning. 

L. 70: "A heavy er Immage of our Country drew." — [A person 



424 Notes 

yt has been chosen Kt. of the Shire to the exclusion of Sir W™ 
Twisden.] 

L, 178: ^'■Beneath the covert of a moving ivood." — [This is 
a poetical allusion to the common Proverb that Kent was never 
conquer'd.] According to a historic legend, the Kentish men 
assembled with boughs in their hands (circa 1067) and demanded 
of William the Conqueror a recognition of their rights, when that 
monarch was on his way from London to take possession of Can- 
terbury and Dover Castle. In 1795 was circulated a Kentish half- 
penny bearing on its obverse the mounted figure of the Conqueror 
confronted by three men holding boughs. The legend on the coin 
was " Kentish Liberty preserved by Virtue and Courage." Invicta 
is the motto of Kent. Drayton, in his Polyolbion (song xviii, 1. 
737), says of Kent: "Of all the English shires be thou surnamed 
the Free." See Lambarde's Perambulution of Kent (1576); The 
Kentish Garland, Hertford (1881). 

L. 191: "As much the Poet's Friend, as much the World's 
Delight." — [This line is an immitation of Spenser's thought of St. 
Phil: Sid[n]ey whom he calls "Astrophel" in his poem.] The line 
referred to is probably " Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is 
the world's delight," in the poem (ascribed by Lamb to Lord Brooke) 
entitled Another of the Same in the Astrophel volume of 1595. 

AN ENQUIRY AFTER PEACE 

The title in the MS. is: Verses incerted in a Letter to my Lady 
Thanet; being an enquiry after Peace; and shewing that what 
the World generally persues, is contrary to it. 

THE PETITION FOR AN ABSOLUTE RETREAT 

L. 59: " The Luxurious Monarch wore." — [Josephus says that 
every Monday Solomon went to the House of Lebanon in an open 
Chariot, cloath'd in a Robe most dazling White, which makes that 
allusion not improper, and may give us Grounds to believe that the 
Lilly mention 'd by our Saviour (compar'd to Solomon in his Glory) 
might really be the common white Lilly, altho' the Commentators 
seem in doubt what Flowers are truly meant by the Lillies, as 
thinking the plain Lilly not gay enough for the Comparison; 
whereas this Garment is noted by Josephus to be wonderfully 
Beautiful tho' only White; nor can any Flower, I believe, have a 
greater Lustre than the common White Lilly.] 



Notes 425 

L. 89: "As gathered from Fidentia's vales" — [These circum- 
stances are related by Plutarch in the Life of Sylla,] 

L. 206: ^'^ Thus had Crassus been content " — [ The Description 
of this Cave is exactly taken from Plutarch in the Life of Crassus.] 

L. 238: ^^ Nor had he who Crouds could blind." — [Sertorius.] 

L. 255: ^'•Truly Fortunate, and Blest." — [The Canary Islands, 
called by the Ancients the Fortunate Islands, and taken by some 
of the Poets for Elysium^ 

TO THE R^ HON^^^ THE LADY 0. TUFTON 

In this and the next poem " Serena " is Catharine Tufton, (born 
April 24, 1692, daughter of " Arminda," the Countess of Thanet). 

A POEM FOR THE BIRTHDAY OF THE LADY CATHERINE TUFTON 

L. 19: '■'•How Great that more distinguish' d Peer." — The sixth 
Earl of Thanet, known as "the good Lord Thomas." "He is a 
good country gentleman, a great assertor of the prerogatives of the 
monarchy and the chvuch ; a thin, tall, black, red-faced man, turned 
of 60 years old. — Of great piety and charity." Macky, Charac- 
ters in the Court of Queen Anne ( Swift's additional comment in 
italics). 

L. 33: "0/ Her, whose Favorite she appears." — [The Lady 
Coventry.] Margaret Tufton, sister of the second Earl of Thanet, 
married to Lord Coventry in 1653. 

L. 63: " When Hothfeild shall (as /iere^o/ore)."— Hothfield, the 
family seat of the Tuftons in Kent. The five daughters of Thomas, 
the sixth Earl of Thanet, married early and into noble families, 
thus maintaining the reputation of the family for "illustrious 
Hymens." 

UPON THE DEATH OF KING JAMES THE SECOND 

L. 37: ^^ Earlier than Ccesar far." — [The king was born in the 
year 1633, and in 1642 He was in the Battel atEdge-hill.] 

L. 41 : " Which Ccesar never proved nor his tenth Legion 
knew." — [The Tenth was the most vaillant and favotur'd of Julius 
Caesar's Legions.] 

L. 45: " WhiVst the best General ivhich the World cou'd 
boast." — [The King when very yong was in the French service 
and Lieutenant General under Mareschall Turenne against the 
Spaniards where he behaved himself with that Valour and Conduct 
that in a sicknesse of Turenne's when 'twas thought he could not 



426 Notes 

live, the King of France sending for his advice who should com- 
mand his Army, if he shou'd not recover, He answer'd the King 
that if he wou'd have his affaires prosper, he shou'd make choice of 
a noble, valourous and fortunate General and cou'd chuse no fitter 
Person than the thrice Heroick Duke of York. In that famous 
Action when Turenne forc'd the Spanish Trenches (altho defended 
by the Prince of Cond6) and reliev'd Arras, the D. of York behaved 
himself with remarkable bravery and was wounded, as may be 
seen in the French translation of Card. Mazerin's Life, written in 
Italian by Count Gualdo.] 

L. 53: ^^ Which to the skies was borne in Opdam's fiery blaze." — 
[ In oiir first Dutch war after the Kestoration the D. of York com- 
manded our Fleet, beat the Dutch, and blew up Opdam their 
Admiral, for which service the Parliament with great applause of 
his Vallour and Conduct made him a magnificent Present as apears 
upon their Journals.] 

L. 102: In stanza 6, before 1. 102, three lines have been crossed 
out, and the sense of those that follow consequently left imperfect. 
These lines seem to read: 

Weep then ye Realms who once his sway confesst, 

Who had he been of your Behef possest 

Amongst your Kings that have laid down. 

L. 104: " Then Alfred's Piety had formed his Praise," — 
[Alfred was one of our Saxon Kings famous for his Piety and 
application day and night to the publick affaires.] 

L. 108: ^'■Unto our frugal Henry's been preferred." — [Hen. 
the Seventh.] 

L. Ill: ^'■What even Eliza's dayes brought in" — [Cambden 
sais that the custom of excessive drinking was brought amongst 
us out of Holland by those Troops which Queen Elizabeth lent the 
States.] 

L. 112: " The wasting foul Excesse MiscalVd Good-natured 
Sin." — [ Drinking.] After 1. 112, twelve lines are crossed out so 
effectually that it is impossible to restore them. Decipherable 
words and phrases indicate that these lines have to do with the 
private life of James II. Lines 9-11 seem to read: 
In his own Breast a rebell world to find 
Where such embattled troops of vices grew 
As the Souldier did at length subdue. 

But in what connection they were used is not apparent. 



Notes 427 

L. 139: After 1. 139 are these two lines which have been crossed 

out: 

Least Ruin'd by their complicated charms 
Mankind had laid on Fate their unprevented Harms. 

THE CIRCUIT OF APPOLLO 

L. 11: '•'•He lamented for Behn o're that place of her birth." — 
[ M" Behn was Daughter to a Barber who liv'd formerly in Wye, a 
a little market Town (now much decay 'd) in Kent: though the 
account of her life before her Works pretends otherwise ; some 
persons now alive Do testify upon their knowledge that to be her 
Original.] See Mr. Gosse on this point in the Athenceum, Septem- 
ber 6, 1884. He finds the statement verified by the records of 
the parish of Wye. 

A POEM OCCASIONED BY THE SIGHT OF THE 4th ePISTLE OF 

HORACE 

The Mr. Richard Thornhill here referred to is the one who after- 
wards killed Sir Cholmley Deering, his intimate friend, in a duel, 
May 9, 1711, and was himself, in consequence, assassinated August, 
1711. See Swift's Journal to Stella under these dates. This 
famous duel is fully described by Ashton, Reign of Queen Anne, 
pp. 392-4. Mr. Thornhill's remorse is described under the char- 
acter of "Spinamont," Spectator, 84, June 6, 1711. See also 
Wotton, English Baronetage, 2 : 21. The " Orania " of the poem is 
Frances Coell, daughter of Thomas Coell, Esq. 

LI. 58-62: "The Vine" was a tavern in Long-Acre. The two 
men supposed to meet Mr. Thornhill there were probably Nicholas 
Rowe and Charles, Earl of Winchilsea. 

TO A FELLOW SCRIBBLER 

L. 10: "The night-shade with a dismal flow'r" — This is proba- 
bly the Solanum Dulcamara, the woody night-shade, "a climbing 
plant found in moist hedges and thickets with purple flowers in 
drooping clusters." See Catlow, Field Botany, London, 1848, 

L. 12: " Or honesty with feather' d doivn." — A local name for 
wild clematis, the full name being " Maiden's Honesty." "About 
Michalmass all the hedges about Thickwood (in the parish Colerne) 
[Wilts] are as it were hung with maydens honesty, which looks 
very fine." Aubrey's Wilts, Royal Soc. MS., p. 120. Quoted in 
English Plant Names, English Dialect Society. 



428 Notes 

L. 19: ^^With beauteous Eglantine imbrac'd." — "Eglantine" 
and "honey-suckle" (1. 21) seem to be used as synonymous. The 
plant probably referred to is woodbine. Prior in Popular Names 
of British Plants (1879) says that honey-suckle in "poetry and 
popular usage" is Lonicera periclymenum, but that the name 
"honey-suckle" seems to have been given to the woodbine "be- 
cause of the honey-dew so plentifully deposited on its leaves." 
"Eglantine" is a name much discussed and not certain of applica- 
tion. Its usual signification at the present day is the sweet-briar. 
But Prior says that the " twisted eglantine " of Milton's L' Allegro 
was probably the woodbine. And the English Plant Names (Eng. 
Dialect Soc.) says that woodbine is still called eglantine in N. E. 
Yorkshire. Cf. Ellacombe, Plant- Lore and Garden-Craft of 
Shakespeare, 1884, pp. 83, 125. 

TO DR. WALDRON 

In the Oxford and Cambridge Miscellany Poems (Bernard 

Lin tot, 1709), p. 112, is An Essay on Death by Dr. W of All 

Souls. 

TO MR. JERVAS 

Charles Jervas, a popular portrait painter, was on intimate 
terms with Pope, Swift, Arbuthnot, Addison. He painted several 
portraits of Pope. After the return of Jervas from Italy in 1709 
his house in Cleveland Court was a meeting-place for his literary 
friends. Lady Winchilsea's town-house was close by in Cleveland 
Row. Of Mrs. Chetwynd Swift, in a letter dated London, March 
22, 1708-9, and addressed to "A Monsieur Monsieur Hunter," says: 
"The beauties you left are all gone off this frost, and we have 
got a new set for spring, of which Mrs. Chetwynd and Mrs. Wors- 
ley are the principal." 

A SONG OF THE CANIBALS, OUT OF MOUNTAIN'S ESSAYS 

This love song of the cannibal chieftain is in Les Essais de 
Montaigne, Paris, 1886, Vol. II, chap. 31, p. 145. 

AN EPISTLE FROM A GENTLEMAN TO MADAME DESHOULIERS 
Madame Deshouliferes (Antoinette de Ligier de la Garde) was 
one of the chief female poets of Prance. Her works were published 
in 1687-88, and again in 1695, the year after her death, by her 
daughter. The letter here translated is included in her works and 



Notes 429 

is there entitled Lettre de M. de Senec4, premier valet-de-chambre 
de la Reine, & M™* Des Houlieres, en lui envoyant de Vargent 
qu'elle lui avoit prSte a la Bassette. 

ealph's eefleotions 

L. 19: '^ But throw our stockins at our heads." — For the cus- 
toms and superstitions connected with " flinging the stocking " and 
drinking the " sack-posset" see W. C. Hazlitt, Popular Antiquities 
of Great Britain (1870), Vol. II, pp. 112, 114. 

THE OWL DESCKIBING HEK YOUNG ONES 

L. 50: '^At length he cry'd with Vultur's Becks." — In Tusser, 
Husbandry (1573) " bex " is the plural form, as in the lines, (chap. 
34, St. 11): 

So doing, more tender and greater they wex 
If peacock and turkey leave jobbing their bex. 

Murray (Diet.) gives "beck" as still in use in the eighteenth 
century. 

LI. 52-4: " Palatines " were fur tippets. Cent. Diet, quotes from 
Ladies Dictionary, 1694: ^^ Palatine, that which used to be called 
a sable tippet, but that name is changed." Doily was a woolen stuflF 
introduced for summer wear in the latter part of the seventeenth 
century. Dryden speaks of " Doily petticoats " (Limberham, Act 
IV, Sc. 1, 1678). Spectator, 283, speaks of doily as a stuff at once 
genteel and cheap. Arbuthnot {John Bull, I, vi) says: "His Chil- 
dren were reduced from rich silks to Doily stuffs," and Congreve 
speaks of "a fool and a doily stuff" (The Way of the World, Act 
III, Sc. 3), but Gay makes doily synonymous with silken drugget 
(Trivia, 1:43), and Lady Wiuchilsea classes her " Doily stuffs" with 
silks as opposed to calicoes. Dr. Johnson (Diet.) defines "calico" 
as "an Indian stuff made of cotton; sometimes stained with gay 
and beautiful colors." Murray (Diet.) quotes from J. Eoberts, 
Spinster, 347 (1719): "A tawdry, pie-spotted, flabby, ragged, low- 
priced thing, called Callicoe, made by a parcel of Heathens and 
Pagans that Worship the Devil, and work for half a penny a day." 

THE EAGLE, THE SOW, AND THE CAT 

LI. 27-9: "ies^ Pettitoes should make," etc. — William King in 
Art of Cookery, chap. 9, in his pretended excerpts from a great 
work by Cselius Apicius, puts emphasis on the sumptuous dishes 
prepared by the ancients from "hog-meat" in various forms. 



430 Notes 

Apicius is represented as lauding the "liver, lights, brains and 
pettitoes " of a black China pig, and as speaking of a dish much in 
favor with certain Roman emperors, one of the elements of this 
dish being " a wild sow's hock and udder." 

L. 46: ^'A Pestilential Soiv, a meazled Pork." — "Measles" 
was a name for several diseases of swine or sheep. Butler (Hudi- 
bras, Part I, Canto II, 1.688) has: "As e'er in measled pork was 
hatched." Tusser {Good Husbandry, chap. 17) has: 
Hog measeled kill 
For Fleming who will, 

With evident derogatory estimate of the discrimination of the 
" Flemings." 

FANSCOMB BARN 

L. 7: " Through Ages passed consigned for Harbour meet." — 
[Fanscomb-Bam, near Wye in Kent, is a privileg'd Retreat for Beg- 
gars.] 

L. 97: '^Where the White Sparrow never soiled her Plumes." — 
[Fanscomb-Bam is famous for breeding white mice and white spar- 
rows.] 

L. 100: " That flows near Pickersdane renowned Stream." — 
[Pickersdane, is a point of Wye-Downs, where there is an excellent 
spring, much frequented by the scholars of the Free-School at 
Wye; who meet there to drink the water with sugar; which has 
been an ancient custom and a great diversion to them.] 

L. 111. " Nor shou'd, quoth he, that Well o'er-hung with shade." 
— [A very deep well, within a little wood near Fanscomb Barn.] 

JEALOUSIE IS THE RAGE OF A MAN 

L. 14: ^'■Smooth, ev'ry clinging plume with anger lies." — [A 
dove when angry or going to fight lays her feathers close.] 

THE SPLEEN 

L. 41: ^^ We faint beneath the Aromatick Pain." — Mr. Saints- 
bury (Short History of Eng. Lit., p. 563) suggests that Lady Win- 
chilsea borrowed her phrase "aromatic pain" from Dryden. The 
reference is probably to Dryden, Annus Mirabilis, st. 29, reads: 
Amidst whole heaps of spices lights a ball, 

And now their odours armed against them fly; 
Some preciously by shattered porcelain fall 
And some by aromatic splinters die. 



Notes 431 

Mr. Gosse, in Ward's English Poets, called attention to the fact 
that Pope borrowed from Lady Winchilsea his phrase " aromatic 
pain." The line in Pope is (Essay on Man, 1:200): 

Die of a rose in aromatic pain. 
Mr. Gosse now further calls my attention to the following lines in 
Shelley's Epipsychidion : 

And from the mass violets and jonquils peep, 
And dart their arrowy odour through the brain, 
Till you might faint with that delicious pain. 

This is almost certainly a conscious recollection of Ardelia's 
lines. 

A PINDAKICK POEM UPON THE HUERICANE 

L. 96: "O Wells! Thy Bishop's Mansion We lament."— [The 
Bishop's Palace at Wells was blown down, and kill'd Bishop Kidder 
with his lady.] 

L. 233: "Ye Clouds! that pity' d our Distress " — [We had a 
great shower of rain in the midd'st of the storm.] 

L. 247: " Which to foresheiv the still portentous Sun." — [The 
ancients look'd upon the Sun (or Phoebus) as prophetick.] 

L. 248: "■ Beamless and pale of late his Race begun." — [One 
day of the summer before the storm we had an unusual appearance 
of the sun (which was observ'd by many people in several parts of 
Kent). It was of a pale dead colour, without any beams or bright- 
ness for some hoin-s in the morning, altho' obstructed by no clouds; 
for the sky was clear.] 

PROLOGUE TO AEISTOMENES 

This Prologue was not published with the play in 1713. The 
Lord Winchilsea to whom it was addressed was doubtless Charles, 
the third Earl of Winchilsea. 

L. 17: "A droll wou'd at Newmarket make them sport." — Cart- 
wright's ed. of Sir John Reresby's Diary, March 22, 1684, de- 
scribes the diversions of King Charles at Newmarket as a progress 
'from the cock-pit to the horse-race, back to the cock-pit, and 
then to the play, though the commedians were very indifferent." 
Shad well's "Prig" in The True Widow enumerates among the 
delights at Newmarket the " play in a barn " (Sidney, England, 
1660-1669). Ashton (Social Life in Reign of Queen Anne, ch. 20) 



432 Notes 

describes the shows at the various fairs. Among them was what 
Ward called "a dwarf Comedy, Sir-named a Droll." 

L. 24: ^^ Or tedious sheet, of doubtful news from Dyer." — In 
the MS. this line is written over the earlier form, ^'■fulsom lyes 
from Dyer." Dyer's News-Letter was discontinued September, 
1713.. For references to this News-Letter see Tatler (18), where 
Dyer's skill in manufacturing exciting news is commented on; 
Spectator, Nos. 43 and 127 ; and Ashton. Reign of Queen Anne, 
p. 300. 



INDEX 



Absence, On, 121, 

Adam Pos'd, cxviii, 149. 

" ^sop," Vanbrugh, lix. 

Affliction, On, 19, 

Alcidor, 151. 

Alexander to HephcBstion, 139. 

AH is Vanity, lii, Ixxvii, cvii, 238. 

Aminta of Tasso, Some Pieces out of the, 

xciv, cxxx, 10, 112, 416. 
Amintor, 113. 

"Apollo Outwitted," Swift, liv. 
Appollo, The Circuit of, xciii, 92. 
Appology, The, 13. 
Ardelia, lii, Ixxxiv, 93, 192; see Win- 

chilsea, Lady. 
Ardelia, Dialogue between Teresa and, 

xxi, 223. 
Ardelia, Friendship betiveen Ephelia 

and, xxxix, 46. 
Ardelia to Melancholy, xliii, 15. 
Ardelia to Mrs. Randolph, 95. 
Ardelia's Answer to Ephelia, xxxviii, 

cxxi, 11, 38. 
Ardelia'' s Return Home, Upon, cxii, 24. 
Aristomenes, xxviii, xxix, Ivi, Ixxviii, 

ci-ciii, cxxx, 11, 337. 
Aristomenes, A Song for, 410. 
Aristomenes, Epilogue to, 411. 
Aristomenes, Prologue to, xxxv, 337, 431. 
Arminda, see Thanet, Countess of. 
Astell, Mary, Ixi, Ixix, cxv, cxvii. 
Astrop, xlii. 

Athaliah, Part of the Second Act of, 123. 
Atheist and the Acorn, The, Ixxvi, Ixxxi, 

ex, 169. 
Ballard, George, Ixxi. 
Bargain, The, 37. 
" Basset - Table," Centlivre, Ixi, 418, 

420. 
Battle betiveen Rats and Weazels, 207. 
"Beggar's Opera, The," Gay, cxii, cxiii, 
Behn, Mrs., Iviii, 420, 427. 
Better, For the, 166. 

Birch, Tliomas, Ixx, Ixxi, Ixxii, Ixxxviii. 
Bird, The, 265. 
Bird and the Arras, The, 51. 
Birds in Lady Winchilsea's poetry, 

cxxvii-xxx. 
Books subscribed for by Lord Winchil- 

sea, xlix, 115. 



Brass-Pot and Stone-Jugg, The, 177. 

Breval, John Durant, Ixiii. 

Britten, Thomas, xlvii. 

Bussy-Rabutin, xcv, 121. 

Caesar and Brutus, 138. 

Calico, 429. 

Canibals, A Song of the, 120. 

Cautious Lovers, The, Ixxviii, 147 

Centlivre, Mrs., Ixi, Ixii, 418, 420. 

Change, The, xxx, Ixxviii, 84. 

Chetwynd, Mrs., xlii, 109, 428. 

Gibber, CoUey, Ix, Ixii. 

Gibber, Theophilus, Ixxi. 

Clarinda's Indifference at Parting with 

Beauty, 111. 
Gleone, See Thynne, the Hon. Mrs. 
Glinket, Phoebe, Ixii-lxx. 
" Comparison between the Two Stages," 

Gildon, Ixi. 
" Complete Key, The," E. Parker, Philo- 
math," Ixiv, Ixviii. 
" Confederates, The," Breval, Ixiii, Ixiv. 
Consolation, The, 18. 
Country, Dislike of the, cxxi. 
Cowley, Abraham, cvii. 
Greyk, J., xlvii, Ixxxvi, 414. 
Critick and the Writer of Fables, The, 

cxii, 153. 
Cupid and Folly, 159. 
Dafnis, An Invitatioii to, xlv, 28. 
Daphne's Ansiver to Sylvia, 112. 
Death, To, 270. 

Democritus and his Neighbours, 208. 
Deshouli6res, Madame, xcv, 126, 428. 
" Desiderata Curiosa," Peck, xlvi. 
Dog and his Master, The, 206. 
Doily, 429. 

Don Carlos, A Prologue to, 96. 
Dorinda, Timely Advice to, 135. 
Dramas, Lady Winchilsea's, Ixxviii, 

xcvi-ciii, 11, 12. 
Dryden, John, xxiii, lii, Ixix, Ixxxix- 

xciii (.passim), xcvi, cxi, cxiv, cxxviii, 

9, 41, 430. 
Duncombe, John, Ixx, Ixxi. 
Dundee, On the Lord, 81. 
Dyce, Alexander, Ixxvi, Ixxix. 
Dyer, John, 337, 432. 
Eagle, the Sow, and the Cat, The, 198. 

433 



434 



Index 



Earl of W., To Mr. F., now, xxvii, 20. 

Easter Day, On, 220. 

Eastwell, xxviii, xxxi-xxxiv, 8, 24, 32, 

419. 
Eccho, To the, 264. 
Eglantine, 428. 
" Eighteenth Century Literature," Gosse, 

Ixsxii. 
" Eminent Ladies,Poems by," lxxii,l^xvi. 
" English Poets," Ward, Ixxxii, Ixxxiii. 
Ephelia, See Worsley, Lady. 
"Epistle to Flavia," Eowe, liii. 
Equipage, The, 122. 
" Essay Supplementary to the Preface," 

Wordsworth, Ixxv. 
Estwick, Mr., 18. 
Etheredge, Sir George, 41. 
Executor, The, 189. 
External Nature, Lady Winchilsea's 

Attitude toward, cxxi-cxxxiv. 
Fables, Lady Winchilsea's, Ixxvii, 

Ixxviii, cviii-cxi, 416. 
Faitscomb Barn, Ixx, cxii-cxiv, 210, 417, 

430. 
Fellow Scribbler, To a, 105. 
"Feminead," Buncombe, lxx,lxxi. 
Femmes Savantes, Molifere, Iviii, Ix. 
Finch, Charles (Third Earl of Winchil- 
sea), xxiv, xxix, xxxiv, xxxv, xlvii, 
liv, 32, 33, 337, 413, 418, 419. 
Finch, Heneage (Fourth Earl of Win- 
chilsea), xxiv-xxxv (passi7n), xliv-li, 
19, 20, 23, 28, 30, 413, 414, 415. 
Finch, Heneage (Second Earl of Win- 

chilsea),xxiv, xxviii, 413, 419. 
Finch, Lashley, xxxiv, xxxv, 36, 420. 
Finch, Sir Moyle, xxxi, xlv. 
Flowers in Lady Winchilsea's poetry, 

cxxvi. 
Fortune, The Decision of, 174. 
Fragment, xxx, Ixxvii, 13. 
French Book, Written before a, 121. 
"General Dictionary," Birch, Ixx, Ixxi, 

Ixxii, Ixxxviii. 
" Generous Husband," Johnson, Ixii. 
"Gentleman's Magazine," 1, Ixxiv, 414. 
Gildon, Charles, lii, Iv, Ixi. 
Glass, 50. 

Gold is try'd in the fire, 228. 
Gosse, Edmund, Ivi, Ixxxii, Ixxxiii, 

Ixxxvi, 427, 431. 
"Gossii) in a Library," Gosse, Ixxxii, 

Ixxxvi. 
Gmite and the Spider, The, 30. 
Greife, A Song on, xliii, cv, 18. 
Grosart, A. B., Ixxviii, Ixxxiii. 
Halo, Mrs., Ixxx. 
Hallelujah, 222. 
Harris, John, xlvi, ixx. 



Haselwood, Family of, xix. 

Herbert, Edw. and Eliz., xxxix, 55, 422. 

Hertford, Countess of, xxxviii, xxxix, 61, 

423. 
Hertford, Earl of, xlvii, 1. 
" History of Kent," Harris, xlvi, Ixx. 
Hog, the Sheep, and the Goat, The, 182. 
Honey-suckle, 428. 
Hope, Ixxviii, 136. 
Horace, Poem occasioned by Sight of 4th 

Epistle of, 98. 
Hunt, Leigh, xxxvi, Ixxx. 
Hurricane, On the, Ixxxv, cvii, 252. 
Hymn, cxxiii, 262. 

Injustice toivards Providence, Man^s, 196. 
Introduction, The, 4. 
Invention of Writing Letters, In Praise 

of the, 110. 
Invocation to Sleep, An, xliii, 16. 
James the Second, xxiv-xxx {passim), 85, 

425, 426. 
Jane Shore, Epilogue to, liv, 100. 
Jealousie is the Rage of a Man, cxxviii, 

238. 
Jenkinson, To Edward, 108. 
Jervas, Charles, xli, Ixxxvii, 109,428. 
Jester and the Little Fishes,The, 168. 
Johnson, Charles, Ixii. 
Jupiter and the Farmer, 165. 

Ken, Bishop, xl. 

Killigrew, Anne, xxiii. 

King and the Shepherd, The, 162. 

King of Sweden, On a Picture of the, 91. 

Kingsmill, Anne, Ancestry, xviii-xxii, 
Maid of Honour, xxii-xxiv. Marriage to 
Mr. Finch, xxiv-xxvi. See Winchilsea, 
Lady. 

La Fontaine, Jean de, cviii-cx {passim), 
cxxvii, 30, 155, 208. 

Lee, Nathaniel, ciii, 41. 

L'Estrange, Sir Koger, cviii, cix, cxix, 
164, 166. 

Letter to Dafnis, A, 19. 

Letter to the same Person, A, 23. 

Life's P)-og?-ess, Ixxiii-lxxv, Ixxviii, Ixxxii, 
xciii, cv, 136. 

"LiteraryWomenof England," Williams, 
xxxvii, Ixxxi. 

"Lives of the Poets," Gibber, Ixxi. 

Longleat, xxxvii, xl, cxxvi, 47, 53-5, 421. 

Lord and the Bramble, The, 185. 

Losse, The, xxx, cv, 17. 

"Lost Lover," Manley, Mrs., Ix, Ixi. 

Love, Death, and Reputation, Ixxvii, 160. 

Lyon and the Gnat, The, 203. 

Maidstone, Lord, 32, 418. 

Man and external nature in Lady Win- 
chilsea's poetry, cxxx. 



Index 



435 



Man and his Horse, The, 205. 

Man bitten by Fleas, The, 200. 

Manley, Mrs., Ix, Ixi. 

Manuscripts, Lady Winchilsea's, Ixxxiii- 

Ixxxvii. 
Marrow, Lady, Letter from, xliv, 414. 
Mary of Modena, xxii, xxiii, xxvi, xxx. 
Maxim for the Ladys, A, 121. 
Measled, 430. 

Melinda on an Insipid Beauty, 122. 
"Memoirs," Ballard, Ixxi. 
"Men, Women, and Books," Hunt, xxxvi, 

Ixxx. 
Mercury and the Elephant, 3. 
Miller, his Son, and their Asse, A, 155. 
"Miscellany," Fenton, Ixx. 
"Miscellany," Gildon, Hi, Iv. 
"Miscellany Poems," Lady Winchilsea, 

Ixxii, Ixxxvii. 
"Miscellanies," Steele, Ixx, Ixxxvii. 
Miser and the Poet, The, xxxix, cxii, 191. 
Moliftre (Jean Baptiste Poquelin), Iviii. 
Mompesson, Mrs., xxvii. 
Montagu, Lady Mary Wortley, Ixx, 

Ixxvii. 
Montaigne, Michael Eyquem de, xcv, 120, 

428. 
Mountains in Lady Winchilsea's Poetry, 

cxxii. 
Miises at Parna^ssus, From the, 32. 
Musselman's Dream, The, 172. 
Myselfe, On, 14. 

Nightingale, The, cxxiii-cxxx, 267. 
Nocturnal Reverie, A, xxxvi, Ixxv, Ixxvii, 

Ixxx, Ixxxi, cxxxii-cxxxiv, 268. 
North, Christopher, Ixxv. 
"Ode on Love," lii, 415. 
Ogle, Dorothy, xx-xxii, 38, (as Teresa) 

2'23, 420. 
Ogle, Sir Thomas, xx. 
Orania (Frances Coell, wife of Richard 

ThornhLll),98, 99. 
Orinda (Mrs. Philips), xxxv, Ix, Ixxi, 

Ixxx, 7, 10, 11, 93, 96. 
Otway, Thomas, ciii, 99, 420. 
Owl Describing Her Young Ones, The, 

cxxvii, 178. 
Packington, Lady, xxxvii, 422. 
"Parallel, The," xlvi, 414. 
Parker, E., Philomarth, Ixiv. 
Passio7i Vaincue, La, xciii, 125. 
Pastoral between Menalcas and Damon, 

A, 215. 
Pastoral Dialogue, A, cxviii, 144. 
Peace, Enquiry after, xxxvi, Ixxviii, 

xciii, cxxxiv, 67. 
Petition for an Absolute Retreate, The, 

xxx, xxxvi, Ixxv, Ixxvi, xciii, cxxiv, 68. 



Petrarc, The 188th Sonnet of, 119. 
Philips, John, cxii, 192. 
Philomela (Mrs. Eliz. Eowe), 192. 
Philosopher, the Young Man, and his 

Statue, The, 181. 
Phcenix, The, 135. 

Pindaries, Lady Winchilsea's, Ixxvii, 
Ixxviii, cvi-cviii. 

Piso, see Roscommon, Earl of. 
Plantagenet, Richard, xlv, xlvi. 
Poor Man's Lamb, The, xci, 229. 
Pope, Alexander, xli, Iv-lviii, Ixix-lxxii, 

Ixxv, Ixxxix-xciii (passim), 102, 103. 
Preface, The, cxxi, 6. 
Preparation to Prayer, A, 214. 
Prevalence of Custom, The, 170. 
Prior, Matthew, xli, liii, Ixxxviii, ciii-cv, 

102, 192. 

Prodigy, The, 142. 

Psalm, 119th, paraphrased, 226. 

Psalm, 137th, paraphrased, 214. 

Psalm Paraphrased, The l-iSth, 227. 

Punch-Bowl, A Song upon a, xxxv, 36, 

Racine, Jean Baptiste, xcv. 

Ralph's Reflections, 150. 

Randolph, Mrs., lii, 95. 

" Reflections on Marriage," Astell, Ixii. 

Reformation, cxix, 202. 

"Refusal," Gibber, Ix, Ixii. 

Regnier, Mathurin, xcv, 122. 

Religious Poems, Lady Winchilsea's, cv. 

Rev9lntion of 1688, Effect of on Lady 

Winchilsea's fortunes, xxviii-xxx, 12, 

13 (Fragment). 
" Rider's Almanac," Quotations from 

Lord Winchilsea's notes in, xlviii, 

xlix, lii. 

Roscommon, Earl of (as Piso), 42, 416. 

Rowe, Mrs. Elizabeth, xxxix, liii, 423. 

Rowe, Nicholas, liii, 98. 

"Royal and Noble Authors," Walpole, 
Ixxii, Ixxvii. 

" Royal Mischief, The," Manley, Mrs., Ix. 

Saintsbury, George, Ixxxiii, 430. 

Sanson, Guillaume, xlv, 28, 418. 

Satiric Work, Lady Winchilsea's, cxiv- 
cxxi, 10. 

" Schoolmistress," Shenstone, cxiii. 

Sea, The, in Lady Winchilsea's poetry, 
cxxii. 

" Serious Proposal to the Ladies," As- 
tell, Ixi. 

Seward, Anna, Ixxii-lxxv. 

Shadwell, Thomas, Iviii, 431. 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 431. 

Shenstone, William, cxiii. 

Shepherd and the Calm, The, Ixxviii, 183. 

Shepherd Piping to the Fishes, The, 173. 



436 



Index 



Shippen, Will, lii. 
Sigh, A, Ixxxviii, xciii, cv, 138. 
Singer, Elizabeth. See Rowe, Mrs. 
" Sir Patient Fancy," Beha, Iviii, 420, 427. 
Socrates, The House of, 186. 
Solomon, The Second Chapter of the Wis- 
dom of, cvi, 235. 
Song, "By Love Persu'd," cxxx, 128. 
Song for a Play, A, 127. 
Song, Honour, A, 134. 
Song, ''If for a Woman,'''' civ, 133. 
Song, ''Lett the fool still be true,^^ xciii, 

civ, 133. 
Song, "Love thou art best,''"' 131. 
Song, Melinda to Alcander, 128. 
Song, " Miranda hides her,'''' 129. 
So7ig, Moral, Ixxviii, 134. 
Song on Greife, xliii, cv, 18. 
Song, "Persuademe not,'''' 130. 
Song, "Quickly Delia,'''' 131. 
Song, "The Nymph in vaiji," 132. 
Song, The Phcenix, 135. 
Song, " ''Tis strange this heart,''^ 132. 
Song upon a Punch-Boivl, xciii, 36. 
Song, "Vain Love, why dost thou,'''' 130. 
Song, "Whilst Thirsis," 129. 
Songs, Lady Winchilsea's, ciii-cv, 416. 
"Sonnet to Lady Mary Lowther," 

Wordsworth, Ixxv. 
Southey, Robert, Ixxv. 
"Specimens," Dyce, Ixxvi. 
"Specimens," Southey, Ixxv. 
Spleen, The, xlii-xliv, Ivi, Ixxi, Ixxii, 
Ixxvi, Ixxvii, Ixxx, Ixxxi, cvii, cxviii, 
248, 416. 
"Splendid Shilling, The Philips," cxii. 
Steele, Richard, Ixxxvii. 
Storms in Lady Winchilsea's poetry, 

cxxiii. 
Strickland, Agnes, xxiii, xxvi, 413. 
Stukeley, Dr., xliii, xlvi, xlvii, 1, Ixx. 
Swift, Jonathan, xli, liv. 
Tapestry at Longleat, Ixxvii, 47. 
Thanet, Countess of (Arminda), xxviii, 

xxxvi, 67, 68, 424. 
Thanet, Earl of, 425 ; see Tuf ton, Fami- 
ly of. 
Theanor, See Thynne, Henry. 
" Then by some Fountain's flow'' ry side," 

119. 
There's no Tomorrow, 164. 
Thornhill, Richard, 98, 427. 
" Tho^ we of small proportion see,'''' 118. 
"Three Hours after Marriage " Pope, 
Gay, and Arbuthnot, Ivii, Ixii-lxx. 



Thynne, Henry (Theanor), xxxviii, 47, 
59, 423. 

Thynne, Hon. Mr. James, xxxvii, Ixxvii, 
56, 422. 

Thynne, Hon. Mrs. (Cleone), 59, 423. 

Thynne, The Family of, xxxvii-xl, 422. 

Tradesman and the Scholar, The, 194. 

Translations, Lady Winchilsea's, xciv- 
xcvi. 

Tree, The, cxxiv, 266. 

Trees in Lady Winchilsea's poetry, 
cxxiv-cxxvi. 

Triumphs of Love and Innocence, The, 
Ivi, Ixix, xciv, xcvi-ci, 11, 271, 417. 

"True Widow," Shadwell, 431. 

Tufton, Anne, xxxvi, Ixxxi. 

Tufton,-Lady C, xxxvi, 77, 79, 425. 

Tufton, The Family of, xxxvi, 425. 

Tunbridge Wells, xxvi, xlii, xliv, cxiz, 
142. 

Twysden, The Family of, xl, 61, 423. 

Unequal Fetters, The, 150. 

Universal Deluge, The, Ixvi, Ixviii. 

Utresia, See Worsley, Lady. 

Vanbrugh, Sir John, lix, 192. 

Verse Criticism, Lady Winchilsea's, cxi. 

Versification, Lady Winchilsea's, 
Ixxxviii-xciii, 416. 

Virtvx>so, Shadwell, Iviii. 

Waldron, Dr., cxx, 106, 428. 

Walpole, Horace, Ixxii, Ixxvii. 

Ward, T. H., Ixxxii, Ixxxiii. 

Weymouth, Lord Viscount, 56-58, 421. 

Williams, Jane, xxxvii, Ixxxi. 

Winchilsea, Countess of (Anne Kings- 
mill), Sketch of her life, xviii-li; Prog- 
ress of her fame, li-lxxxvii ; Study of 
her poems, Ixxxviii-cxxxiv. 

Winchilsea, Countess of (Elizabeth 
Heneage), xxxi, xl. 

Winchilsea, Lord, see Finch. 

Winchilsea''s Converting the Mount, etc.. 
Upon my Lord, 33. 

Wit and the Beau, The, xci, 158. 

W. M. (Author of " Female Wits"), Ix. 

" Woman's Record," Hale, Mrs., Ixxx. 

Women, Position of, cxv-cxix. 

Wordsworth, William, Ixxii, Ixxv-lxxx, 
cxxxiii. 

Worsley, Lady, xxix, xxxviii, liv, 52, 421, 
428, (as Ephelia) 38, 46. 

Wright, Iviii-lx. 
Wycherley, William, 420. 
Young Rat aiid his Dam, etc.. The, 
cxxviii, 187. 



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